


The Horror of Our Love

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Guns, Human AU, I'm just having fun with this okay, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Twilight References, Vampires, lol, masquerade balls, sorta - Freeform, the violence tag is a "to be safe" tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10026761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: Karkat Vantas is a reporter just looking to do an interview with Dave Strider, banking CEO and member of one of the wealthiest 'Family' groups in North America. Karkat absorbs easily into the family, bites off way more than he can chew, and captures the interest of the 'young' Dave Strider. This is a story about how they fall for each other - in more ways than one.Specifically Karkat.He falls a lot.HALTED INDEFINITELY IN PROGRESS





	1. Chapter 1

Almost as soon as you stepped into this room, you felt like you were being hunted.

Hunted.

_’Come to the ball to interview The Once Young Mister Strider,’ they said._

Or… you at least feel… watched.

That much is for sure.

_‘It’ll be easy to make his audience,’ they said._

You haven’t seen the one you requested an interview with all night, though.

Which one was it, again?

You’d tried for ‘Rose’, at first. But she doesn’t do interviews anymore. Not after the sixties.

_‘You can have your name on the invite list and not the press list,’ they said._

That much was true. Despite not entirely matching the theme of this ball, and not having a frock or cravat, you had been included on the guest list.

_‘I Like You, Small Human,’ **she** said. _

The last one was a direct quote from her eternal majesty herself. Kanaya Maryam, head of one of the oldest Families in North America. They’re a very small Family, with only a few members. They mostly keep to themselves, aside from conducting what actually comes out to be very fair business and frequently donating to charity.

Their Family consists of only…eight members? Which is very small for a Family that old.

Almost unheard of.

The oldest two are obviously Maryam, her first charge Feferi, then it’s David and Rosalina, the latter two commonly known as Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde. The rest fall somewhere in the middle or the end.

You see Rose from across the surprisingly well-lit room. In the past decade or so, she’s very obviously taken it upon herself to play to the needs of pop culture. With a grin like a deadly oil spill and a little veneer of amusement on her brow. Heart-shaped face, almond eyes, slender hands.

…

Basically, she dresses like the cover of a gothic eldritch romance novel fused with a Hot Topic catalog. Complete with the dark lipstick and the deadly sharp eyeliner. Except a bit more high fashion.

She looks terrifying in person, though.

That’s about it.

At this particular ball, she’s got half a gold-lined porcelain mask fastened to her face, and it feels like she’s looking at the entire room at once. People give her a wide berth, unless she seeks them out.

Time didn’t pale her skin at all. It stands out in stark contrast with her perfectly trimmed white bob.

‘It’ doesn’t do that, apparently. Pale your skin, that is.

On the other side of the ballroom, chatting fondly with the caterer, is the head of household herself. She seems very comfortable and at ease here, surrounded by her allies and guests. Some of them have known her through entire generations of their families. She’s got a lot of Old Money Connections.

She’s tall and slender, and her deep green saree is flowing and flawless. Kanaya Maryam is always described as flawless.

Flawless eyes, flawless skin, flawless amateur (bad) fashion line, flawless opinions on fashion (what she actually does successfully), flawless manner of speaking. Flawless. Fucking. Flawless.

Even with a very corny decorative mask hanging off the side of her head. And a drink with a bright yellow umbrella.

She glances around, and finds your eyes.

It’s disorienting. With the few Old Blood that you’ve met so far, they almost carried their age on their sleeve. But with her, she feels almost young. Like she’s your age, or just a little bit older. Her strong nose makes a lovely profile as she turns to wave off the seemingly jovial caterer.

It feels like the whole room is following her as she makes her way toward you instead, beckoning in a way that feels like it came from hundreds of years ago.

The Old Blood – they’re the ones that are more than several centuries old.

And the room itself gravitating toward her? That’s the only clue she’s giving you as to her age.

It’s fascinating.

You almost see a blush bloom in her cheeks, even, as she sweeps around to walk beside you.

“It’s so wonderful that you could come,” she tells you, weight hanging on every word. “I was worried I would have to go and find you at the door.”

When Maryam laughs, the room feels somehow lighter.

And that’s just her natural thing, too.

Not any kind of magic, or glamour.

‘They’ do not have glamour, or anything to make themselves seem more powerful or majestic. That’s apparently just the way they fucking are. It’s infuriating.

“Thank you for having me,” you tell her, as a reply.

You clutch your notebook closer to yourself, and adjust the tape recorder around your neck. Trying to be aloof and surly, separate from the situation.

“Would you like something to eat? Dave is awake and waiting, but trust me, he could wait a short while longer. The food is divine,” she tells you. There’s something about her tone.

Maternal, almost.

It’s yet another jarring contrast to the room around her.

You nod, stiffly, not wanting to be rude and refuse.

While you’re walking with her, the feeling of being hunted increases, from your surroundings. It’s probably just paranoia. You have no idea how many there are at this party, and how many are humans.

“None of the other five are here, this weekend, but I’m sure David will be more than enough for your article,” she continues, while picking up a plate. “For your little newspaper.”

It’s not a condescending tone. And even if it was, you’d feel the same way. You only do newspaper articles to stay on top of your bills, and you’re good enough that they pay you the big bucks for your stories.

People just seem to want to give you your stories.

It’s remarkable.

At one point, Nepeta accused you of having all the editors under a thrall. You snorted and asked her to just stake you while she still had the chance.

“Do you have any preferences?” Kanaya Maryam asks, then.

It jolts you out of your thoughts, and you straighten before you end up blurting out something completely stupid.

Shaking your head, you remember. That’s right. There are five others in her family. Dirk, the engineer, and Roxy, the geneticist-turned-video-game-designer. They’re from the…. mid-twentieth century? Ara… dia? The media likes to joke about her being a charity case. But it would be interesting to know her story, and how she came to be a part of this small family. You know that she and Rose together published a book on the occult, maybe ten years ago.

There are three more, all women in their lives. One of them… trans? That’s the first one. Feferi.

There are rumors about Aradia and Terezi being turned or at least very hurt by someone else recklessly, and rescued and brought under Maryam’s wing.

Kanaya Maryam strikes you as very genuine.

It’s probably something to do with the massive amount of finger food being piled onto the plate for you. Kanaya Maryam is just kind of humming, carefully using tongs to load up not just one, but now two plates with the foods on the table.

You reach out a hand, making an aborted noise, to get her to stop.

And she looks up at you with such kindness and genuine curiosity in her eyes that you just can’t find the will to follow through.

Jesus Lord.

She continues to pile on food.

There are bacon-wrapped scallops, filo dough spinach tarts, rare (but human safety cooked) steak medallions spiced with clove and perfectly salted, draped with molten chocolate, miniature pizzas in a multitude of flavors, shrimp, grapes, strawberries, raspberries, a massive variety of cheeses.

By the time you get to looking longingly at the desserts, she’s done setting up your plate.

She hands you both plates, forcing you to free up your hands. And then—

“Would you like something to drink? We have champagne,” she tells you. You nod, hands full already.

“Oh, it’s so wonderful to have a reporter who truly seems to care about seeing us as people,” she says, and when she smiles at you, you catch a glimpse of fang. “I’ve read your work.”

On Kanaya, it’s somehow charming to see the teeth. Normally, it gives you a bit of a chill.

Human instinct, and all that.

Vampires, right?

They aren’t common, but they aren’t rare, either.

It’s the nasty ones you have to watch out for. The ones who have turned, and have no control. There’s an entire squadron of the police, actually, that’s comprised of Drinkers (another slang term). Their job is to round up and either help or exterminate the bad ones.

There was a bunch of media drama about it at first.

That ‘calmed down’ before you were born, twenty-six years ago.

Of course, tensions haven’t.

People love having something to hate, after all.

Kanaya is in front of you, frowning quizzically, a flute of champagne in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. Both are clearly for you.

“Something on your mind?” She asks.

You shake yourself out of your meandering thoughts, and look up at her.

Jesus fuck, she’s tall.

You’re nearly dwarfed before her, and here you thought you were average at five feet and five.

Appeased, she nods, releasing her frown.

“Well then, come now,” she says, and then pauses. There are thoughts circling behind her eyes, like she’s figuring out a math problem.

Maryam glows, briefly, and sniffs the air. It goes a little quiet. For a brief second. Something happens that feels like the pressure of the air dramatically increases, and then decreases. A manner of seconds.

“Oops!” she nearly exclaims, suddenly, laughing. You jump out of your skin, while she sighs and looks a little forlorn. “I must have taken too long getting your food, you’re out of time to eat!”

“And my dear wife is calling,” she adds, with a little giggle.

You look behind you for a clock, around, somewhere. Or Rose, maybe.

You pull out your phone, and yeah. It looks like some time has passed. But not that much, surely.

“We’ll just take the chum with us then, and you can eat it while you talk to David!” she says, then.

And.

Okay.

…chum?

She holds your drinks as she crosses the room, and you follow, trying not to drop either of your plates.

Conversation in the room returns to its previous clamor as she leads you to the patio doors.

You breathe steadily, gathering your interview persona to you.

They’re closed. It becomes obvious that it’s for the sake of your interview as you exit the well-lit ballroom. The doors shut quietly behind you both, and you look around. The patio, which just seems to be a wide balcony, is dimly lit. A few small tables, candles flickering atop a couple of them. There are a few warm lamps closer in, but not evenly spaced. As if they’ve been pushed away from the far corner.

“Now, Dave, I know you like it dim out here, but if you could avoid rearranging the lighting, I would very much appreciate it,” she tells someone in front of her.

Maryam moves to place your beverages on the small table at which a single figure sits. They’re positioned away from the windows, their own mask lying on the table.

The curtains inside the ballroom shade the patio well, except for the one door. The shade makes the candlelight flicker smokily off the lenses of the figure’s ever-present sunglasses.

Like his sister, he has white-blonde hair. Like his sister, he has tawny skin unaffected by his affliction, or time.

Like his sister, he seems woefully aloof at a first glance.

“Dave. We brought enough food that you should enjoy some, as well,” Maryam tells him, gently.

He looks up, eyes casting over and past you, lingering like they’re stuck before they land on his sire.

You shiver.

He… this one feels like a vampire.

Which is what he is, of course.

Of course it’s all setting.

The lighting, the nighttime. The quiet stare and time you feel in his gaze.

It’s said that Rose’s town out in the West in the nineteenth century was weak and failing. It’s said that they offered her, the beautiful daughter of the tavern prostitute, the “Rose of Santa Francesca County”, as a desperate marriage offering to Kanaya Maryam in return for keeping them safe. It’s said that she took the offer, and made Rosalina her bride. And gave her the Bite.

It’s said that some short time later, she also took Rosalina’s brother, David, under her wing, and took him with them as well. You don’t know the circumstances of that.

That’s what you’re here for, on a secondary level.

Dave Strider has yet to publish an autobiography, you found upon doing research. You’re here to do an article on his financial success over time(that’s the first level), and try to convince him to let you write a book on him.

He’s a public mystery. Very private.

“I’m not hungry, Kan,” he complains, and.

Wait.

Wait a fucking second.

Was that a hint of a… whine?

Any notion you had of him being a mystery leaks out your ears. The notion dissolves in a pathetic puddle on the floor.

God, please don’t let him be a spoiled brat.

Mysterious and powerful he may be. But you’re not convinced until he proves he’s not some rich asshole.

Not wanting to be disregarded, you walk over and set your food down on the table.

He frowns at you, and what you can see of his face spells a little frustration. Not annoyance, strangely.

“Who…?” he starts, and then something seems to come to him. “Oh, right.”

“I’m here for your interview, Mr. Strider,” you tell him, commanding his attention.

Maryam, from next to you, clasps her hands together and makes a little bit of a satisfied noise.

Dave straightens his ruby waistcoat. He’s themed, like the rest of the party. You were the only one in there wearing just a three-piece suit. With tails, by request. You couldn’t afford a costume, but your rented suit is nice enough. In the very least, you tried to get one that seemed a little Victorian in style.

Even if the theme is more Regency. Except for Kanaya, of course. She jingles from next to you.

And Dave?

He looks at you.

Kanaya excuses herself before you’ve even sat down, claiming that she needs to see to Rose.

Dave just looks at you. Stares.

Is he trying to intimidate you? Or are you just being examined?

Maybe he’s just completely socially inept.

You wouldn’t put it past him.

It’s about half a minute of this before you get tired of it. You’re not doing that particular charade tonight.

Taking your notebook in hand, and slapping your tape recorder down on the table, you pull yourself a chair.

It’s hard not to want to ‘accidentally’ step on one of his too-shiny shoes, to get him to stop staring. It’s almost burning into your neck, his stare.

The only other place to sit at this table is on the opposite side of Dave, even further out of the view of the party.

You suppress the urge to feel wary about that.

Surely he didn’t do that on purpose.

As you sit, Dave is bringing one of the miniature pizzas up to his mouth. He folds it in half with one hand before popping the entire thing in.

You stare at him in mild disbelief.

So he was hungry, after all?

You get a flash of fang.

As you settle, he downs the bite. Too fast for a human, and wincing as the large chunk goes down. It’s good that he can’t be killed by suffocation.

“So,” he says, still looking out, away from the house. Dave reaches up to his mouth, and picks something out of his teeth with his pinky nail. There’s a garden out there where he’s looking—the mansion’s garden. It’s covered with hedges and flower bushes, Kanaya Maryam’s personal hobby. She loves landscaping. And you hear she’s a real artist with a chainsaw.

You shift, and a breeze rolls past you. It ruffles your hair, then Dave’s, and Dave seems to lose his train of thought.

He freezes, and then inhales deeply.

Out of the side of his shades, you see his eyes flick toward you.

The pupils in those eyes expand, and Dave looks… almost scared.

Of what?

Before you can see anything else happen, he shoves a steak medallion into his mouth.

If you were guessing, you might say it feels like a nervous gesture.

“So?” you ask.

Around his food, Dave tries again.

He angles toward you, now, so that his shades completely block his eyes from view.

It’s hard to tell, out here. But you’ve heard rumors that his eyes are red as blood. Like a Feral Drinker. And that’s why he keeps them covered.

It’s really none of your business. However outlandish and bigoted it sounds.

“So,” he says, muffled. You take a drink of your champagne and try not to grimace. Food flecks fly from his mouth. “What exactly are you wanting to find out about me?”

Finally, familiar territory.

You sigh, and pick up some fruit to shove into your mouth.

It’s delicious, that fruit.

“I was hoping to get some of your past, and how it affected your modern business practice,” you tell him.

Dave has the gall to look a little surprised.

Somehow, he looks fucking surprised. He must have heard every question in the book, and yet this one is coming as a surprise to him.

“You want to know how I’m a successful banker?” he asks, a little incredulous.

You’re a bit offended. You let yourself scowl at him.

“What else would I ask about?” you ask, opening your notebook.

Dave smirks, like either he’s in complete doubt and doesn’t believe you, or you’re an idiot.

“What?” you press, tapping your pen on the first line.

You’re just about ready to write ‘avoidant at best’ on the top line when Dave pushes his shades back, and looks directly at you.

“Well, usually they want to ask about my eyes. Or how I was sired. Or why I hate talking about myself,” he says. And you sit back.

Whoa. Where did _this_ shit come from?

Dave leans forward, folding his arms on the table and bracing himself. “What kind of blood do you drink, Mister Strider? Did you really kill your first bite? Why so few partners in two hundred years, Mister Strider?”

He seems… this is defensive.

You avoid the urge to snap back at him, but you keep your frown. Dave Strider looks suspicious, he seems militant, ready to get up and leave. He’s just done with it, it seems like. And you didn’t do anything. Not yet, at least.

And there’s guilt in you, as well. Guilt because you were going to ask him to share his story, in full. Does that make you any better than the other reporters he’s apparently spoken to?

But. He seems to want honesty. Even if he’s done nothing to deserve it yet, with his disregard and his frustration, his incredulity and then antagonistic behavior.

The guilt makes you blurt some possibly unwise words.

“I’m here to ask about your business, Dave Strider. That can be it, if you want,” you tell him. “I came here to ask about you, as well, but it was secondary. The article is all business.”

And there it is.

You’ve admitted partial guilt, now, to having wanted to talk to him about his past.

And he takes it.

He sits back.

He chews on that tidbit like it’s tobacco in his lip.

Like he’s the very image of calm. Stone. Like the naked cherub statues in the garden.

There are steel shutters closed down over his eyes.

But he’s thinking, you can tell that much. He’s making a decision.

You reach out, pop something crunchy and vaguely deep-fried into your mouth while you wait.

It’s swallowing down your throat when he speaks next.

“Sure. Just the business one,” he says.

And when you find his eyes again, Dave Strider is sitting with his arms crossed. The shutters are gone.

Your heart beats excitedly.

“Any funny shit and it’s off. Comprende?”

“Yes,” you confirm.

He’s listening, you can tell, for the lie in your voice. For the lie in the beat of your pulse in your chest. You always forget that they can hear that.

And Dave Strider uncrosses his arms.

He still looks a little doubtful. But he’s willing to talk to you. And if this goes well, maybe he’ll be more willing to listen to you about that biography.

You turn on the tape recorder, and say your line.

“This is Karkat Vantas, recording an interview with Dave Strider, owner of the LSM Banking conglomerate.”

Dave’s eyes glimmer in the light.

He grins.

You get more fang.

The word Vampire echoes around in your head. It knocks on the inside of your skull.

And he shoves another piece of food into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

It takes all of five questions for you to get all the information you need. Once he opened up, it was easy.

It’s simple. You find out where he was from, what year he started banking, how he founded the business off of funds from selling his father’s ranch. You find out that he likes to put value into hard work, and so his tellers and customer service representatives have always been paid fairly and well for good customer reviews. You find out that he doesn’t take too much of the money for himself, choosing instead to pay employees, and improve the company, and that he puts whatever he doesn’t need into savings. He works stocks as well with a talented eye to make personal cash, and doesn’t put a lot of value into the extravagant.

Finding this out makes something go slack in your chest.

So he’s not just some… spoiled brat.

When asked why he’s so rich now, he simply tells you that with his and his sister’s combined money, as well as Kanaya’s, it’s easy to accumulate a lot of wealth over two hundred years.

“A lot of time and luck. And buying into the housing bubble,” he confirms.

You laugh at that.

Since you started talking, he’s gotten more relaxed.

Dave has loosened his posture, continued to nervously shove food into his mouth, and made too many bad jokes to count. And when you say bad jokes, you mean bad.

Dave is also astonishingly good at tripping over his own feet as he talks. He’ll ramble for ten minutes about the stupidest shit, avoiding a question, and then he’ll provide an answer riddled with so many nonsensical pop culture references you think your eyes might explode from your head.

You turned off the tape recorder half an hour ago.

You put down your notebook an hour ago.

The food has been gone for fifteen minutes.

Dave’s hand is absently on your knee by the time he’s done with his next sentence.

You glance down at it with raised eyebrows, and Dave splutters, jerking his fingers away like he’s never had a smooth move in his entire life.

“Sorry about that man, my bad,” he mumbles, and goes back to talking about something stupid.

You look away for a split second, and Dave’s eyes glint from the shadow cast over his face.

And that's when Dave Strider leans forward in a flash; his jaw opens wide, fangs wet with his saliva in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! let me know how you liked this first installment! it might be slow coming, because life troubles and other writing im getting into, but i wanna write more of it! it feels new and exciting and cheesy and that's just my cup of joe haha
> 
> special thanks to sadvegeta for helping brainstorm for this, and letting me bounce ideas off her! 
> 
> and special thanks to notedchampagne on tumblr for totally letting me shamelessly mooch off her masquerade ball idea for my first chapter and inspiring me to write this! you're fuckin awesome my dude
> 
> also personal apologies for how much the tone changes in this fic! im not great at writing horror so this is new for me!
> 
> i love yall and i hope you have a wonderful day and rest of your week!


	2. Chapter 2

… to place the last raspberry on the tip of his tongue.

Where the _fuck_ was he hiding that?!

You clutch a hand to your chest.

Dave looks for a second like he’s going to start laughing. He pulls back his sleeve gingerly as if not wanting to wrinkle the fabric when a trickle of juice threatens to roll down the side of his hand. The cufflinks catch your eye.

Gear shaped? Is that a like, obsessed-with-time thing? Or. What.

Not that it probably matters. A lot of Drinkers are obsessed with time.

His tongue shoots out to lick the juice off before it can trail too far.

Another show of pointy teeth.

Totally coincidence that it strikes you that he’s pretty.

Dave Strider is attractive, you’ll admit. That’s no excuse for how unprofessional you’re letting yourself be, but it’s something you’ll admit. It’s also interesting to point out (you’re justifying to yourself for absolutely no reason at all whatsoever), because not every Drinker is just magically attractive once they’re turned.

It helps in getting them fed, you’re sure, but life isn’t a cheesy and badly written teen novel. And you don’t have a stalker fetish.

But you flinched when he snapped his teeth. Like some kind of inexperienced kid or something, and god. The wave of shame and regret that pours over you gives you a little headache right in the front of your skull. Sighing, you reach up to massage your temples.

You look down at your notes from the interview, weakly trying to recover your face.

One heart-to-heart and you’re a mess.

And it wasn’t even a real heart to heart.

You’ve been off your game since you got here, for whatever reason, and the interview was so personable that you just relaxed too much. Apparently.

Probably.

A snort comes from Dave’s general direction. When you look up, he’s squinting with the effort of trying not to laugh.

At you.

The idea makes you grimace.

And sigh.

You _sigh_.

“For someone who claims to be so progressive on his blog,” he says, obviously unperturbed with your irritation by the look of his relaxed shoulders, “You sure get scared when a guy snaps his teeth.”

You’re actually offended at that one. Despite the fact that you can really tell he’s shitting you, you let yourself get a little riled. You don’t brag about it, but you like to think you’re pretty PC about things. Of course, therein lies your flaw.

A snort escapes from Dave, and you scowl at him.

It does nothing to curb his silly little grin.

“Well, that’s how I’m socialized,” you reply, and take a breath. “And every sense I have tells me that you’re a predator.” Maybe you’re a little defensive. Maybe indignant. Maybe you sound like a complete asshole, maybe you don’t, maybe you need to stop defending yourself before you strain something.

Dave giggles again.

You feel incredibly silly.

You’re overthinking just about everything here. Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten upset about it, at all.

Despite knowing that he was fucking with you, and despite knowing that you were overreacting, you did it anyway.

This is all just very awkward and disorganized, isn’t it?

You inspect him a little more. His eyes are turned up, amused, and his posture is relaxed and turned toward you. Hand on the table, and the hand on your knee earlier.

Yet another realization dawns on you. It’s been happening all evening. What’s wrong with you today?

He’s flirting with you, isn’t he?

Oh good God. Oh Jesus.

You’re supposed to be working, and you think you might have been flirting back.

There’s no going back now.

(Thinking that feels a little bit slow and contrived, but fuck it. You’re dramatic if anything.)

But mentally, internally, you freeze frame and scramble to pick up what you can.

You’re not really having it with yourself right now.

You settle your face into something hopefully more bland, but stern, and cross your arms.

“Okay yeah, some people are into that, I get it,” he says, very obviously joking yet again, and it knocks you right back off your game.

If that was his goal, he’s succeeded.

It hits something in the pit of your gut, and you feel yourself blush.

Inexplicably.

Completely.

There’s absolutely no reason blood would rush to your cheeks. No reason for your heart to pound.

And yet it does, thumping loudly in your ears, almost deafening for a second.

Dave pauses again. His pupils dilate wide enough for you to see even here, across the table. That _honestly_ can’t be normal.

No other Drinker has… shown you anything like that. Not with their eyes, at least. Not in all the time you’ve been in your profession. And you’ve interviewed a lot of them.

He inhales again, visibly. In your direction.

Something quickens in your chest.

You’re not quite sure if it’s good or bad, as far as rushes in your chest go.

You’re reminded absurdly of the Feral you met once, the one on the mend. Her chin tipped up as she scented the air in front of you, and her eyes went nearly black as the irises disappeared beneath the expanding pupil.

Both you and Dave break the stare.

“Anyways,” you stumble forward, taking a deep breath to settle your expression into a familiar frown, as Dave turns his head to look at the garden.

You see his fist clench.

“You read my blog?” you ask him, and gather yourself before spearing him with a look.

Dave has the audacity to blush, this time.

It’s interesting, vampires blushing. It proves that he actually fed recently, at least.

Drinkers tend to be cooler, blush less, be more moody and volatile, and a few other things; only when they’ve been hungry for too long, though.

“I wanted to do my research,” he explains, waving a hand and glancing quickly at you before letting his gaze flicker away. “Had to make sure you weren’t some pandering asshole.” His eyes are back to normal, as far as you can see.

Weird.

“And what did you think?” you ask him, curious.

Dave tilts the side of his mouth up.

“Well, you’re a little bit of a knowitall, but you seem to have good enough patience to explain shit to stupid internet people,” he says, looking down at the table. “Even if you yell a bit too much.”

You open your mouth to tell him just where he can stick that observation, but he interrupts you.

“I mean I’m not gonna lie, I was expecting some kinda hairy and unkempt gangly dude,” he continues. “Short and cute and nice-smelling is a good substitute, though.”

After he says that, it takes you a minute to register. In that full minute, Dave’s face goes from genial to frustrated and wholly embarrassed, with inward-directed anger. His fist re-clenches, and he wrenches his lip.

“Sorry, that was a bit forward,” he says before you can respond. “My filter is just worse than usual, I guess.”

Frowning, you raise two fingers on each hand.

You check them in the air, with clear ‘finger-quotes’.

“ _…’Nice Smelling,’_ ” you parrot, nonplussed.

Dave’s face absolutely purples with the blush that comes over it. He splutters. It’s another minute before something comes tumbling out of his mouth.

And when it does come out, it’s very clear he’s chosen the route of explanation, not denial. You don’t know which you would have preferred.

“Yeah, you smell nice,” he mumbles, and then takes a big, huge breath. Oh boy.

Time to watch him struggle to pull this together.

“Sorry for making the observation rudely like that but it’s something we Vampy-peeps tend to notice, when a dude walks in and sits down and Whoosh! Best smell you’ve ever laid your fine fuckin nose on, batten down the hatches and gird your loins, there’s a great smelling dude on the loose and he’s sitting at your table and you need to focus and act like a goddamn professional instead of a Fledgeling just Sired twenty minutes ago,” he says, somehow all in one breath. “I mean ay I don’t even really like food anymore but I was just sitting here, cramming grub into my mouth like it would make me regain what precious fucking little was left of my cool after the rest of it made like eggs and got to scramblin’.”

He pants a bit after that, staring at the table in a way that makes it seem like he thinks it’ll explain to him how to recover what remains of his eternal dignity.

“What.” You try.

“I guess just word vomiting doesn’t make it better, does it?” he asks no one in particular. He says something in another language that sounds like a swear. It’s nothing you recognize.

You stare at him, narrow-eyed. “Are you shitting me right now?” you ask, and take a deep breath of your own. “Or did I just enter a teen novel as a badly-written heroine?”

Dave puts his face in both of his hands.

“Because if I’m perfectly honest, I’m entirely not into the creepiness,” you tell him.

And he mushes his eyes, groaning.

“I apologized already!” he complains, and you let yourself keep staring at him.

It’s a little judgmental, but come on.

That’s creepy.

It’s also pretty funny, but the creepiness is winning in the current order of importance.

I mean, he’s a Drinker. And he just told you that you _smell nice_. That means he wants to _eat you_.

“I wasn’t hoping to get anything out of it, It just slipped out!” he complains, head still in his hands. “Holy shit, if Rose was out here she would be rolling in her fucking grave at the lost chance to catch me on that slip, and-”

He’s so determined to make up for it.

It does strike a note of fondness in you.

You stop him before he can continue.

“Look, just don’t do it again,” you say, “And fuck, don’t start on another tangent, I’m growing a beard here.”

Dave throws his head back, this time, and sighs, very pointedly. “I’m sorry,” he says, and rolls his chin over to look at you. It takes a minute or two of thought before he very deliberately asks, “Do you forgive me?”

With a simpering tone, mind you.

His eyes, when he looks at you, are big and round and wreathed in pleading brows. It’s so deliberate and shitty that it makes you snort into your hand. It’s charming. You decide, then, to cut him some slack.

“Definitely not,” you say with a victorious smirk, and.

A smile blooms on his face. Like that shiny CG flower from that one movie. About that girl with the really long hair and the Stockholm syndrome? Yeah, that one. It’s like he’s illuminated, himself.

It sparks that same something in your gut that you tamped down earlier.

“That was funny,” he says softly in the night, still grinning at your bad joke.

It’s a real smile, just a tad ugly on the imperfect edges.

And.

The moment slows.

Somehow, the mood changes.

To something a little… different.

The seconds linger on the cusp of several things at once.

It’s very suddenly a little warmer out here, and the moment feels so painfully secluded and private. It’s like the very air is precious.

He’s… very genuine. Isn’t he?

He’s attractive.

Your work matters, yeah, but. It doesn’t, really.

There aren’t any rules for you in particular that say you can’t.

Besides the one comment, you’re not seeing anything that would make it a bad idea to keep flirting with him. You’re not promiscuous, but… it doesn’t take much to disappear into someone’s rooms for an hour or two. And he’s a Drinker. They’re supposed to be strong, talented…

Hm.

Dave’s eyes are burning into yours like fever.

There’s a moment of something unspoken, and he leans forward almost imperceptibly in his chair.

“I’m really bad at this, but I think maybe I could ask you for coffee, to get you more alone,” he mumbles to you.

And there it is.

Wonderfully clumsy and straightforward. Not a smooth bone in his body.

The tiny professionalism bone in your head is yelling something about keeping work and private life separate. You gleefully ignore it.

Dave leans a little more forward, and it almost feels like he’s leaning over you. Caging you into this corner on the balcony, speaking with a hushed voice despite the fact that the two of you are alone.

“Look, I never do this. If you’ve been watching tabloids, you should know that,” he keeps saying. You’re not entirely sure why he’s clarifying that.

But. What’s wrong with one night? People go into these one-night things with Drinkers all the time.

It feels a little different than that.

Usually, or so rumors have told you, there’s a promise of feeding for the Drinker. It’s taboo to talk about, as a general rule, but you’ve been told that sharing a bite with a Drinker feels... amazing. Like the best thing you’ve ever felt. In your entire life. Something about a predator and aphrodisiac venom or something.

Sounds too much like fantasy porn to be real, right?

People who have been bitten or killed by Ferals seemed to have put up a fight. So maybe it only works if both parties are in trust and consent? After all, it’s fear and very careful watching and lawmaking that make it so that not everyone is clamoring like drug addicts for bites.

The idea alone of this magically fantastic sensation tempts you to say yes to go with him.

“We don’t even have to do anything, we could eat the cake in the kitchen for all I care, Fuckit. There’s cake in there – and ice cream - Kanaya makes me eat before all these parties so I’m not even a little hungry, don’t even worry about me Thirsting after you, but you’re great conversation and I don’t wanna wait for Rose to come find me and make me socialize for business.”

Does he even breathe? Or did the writer of this bullshit just want to write a few really long and contrived paragraphs in a poor but shameless representation of a character?

“Please stop doing that,” you request, holding up a hand.

Dave halts immediately, and his hand goes to the back of his neck.

“Now, usually when someone is that defensive, they’re up to something,” you tell him bluntly. Dave winces, but nods.

He makes a face, stretching out his expression, and straightens his waistcoat for the umpteenth time. Like he’s getting ready to leave.

“But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Guess I’ve lost my mind,” you finish.

Dave looks at you with slightly wider eyes, genuinely surprised. Pleasantly surprised.

He stands, using your knee to push himself up. Tapered fingers trail just a little down the inseam of your pants, and you go to shoot him a frown. The frown dies when you see the blush on his cheeks again.

Benefit of the doubt.

You’re a goddamn saint.

“Either that, or you’ve got a helluva craving for ice cream,” he says then, mouth crooked up.

You roll your eyes and stand as well, picking up your notes and your tape recorder. Dave gets the empty plates, and gestures for you to follow him.

You’ve agreed to go somewhere alone with him, and do God knows what.

Fuck professionalism, right?

 

* * *

 

Like someone might have expected, you end up in his room.

Well… it’s a parlor outside his room, more of an antechamber. If that’s even the right term.

God, this house is huge.

The path from the balcony to the kitchen was thankfully free from interruption. Just one stop as you passed Kanaya. She and Dave communicated something silently between them, and she smiled in approval. They shared a look, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Hopefully nothing… sinister. Right?

The high collar on his jacket frames his jaw very nicely as he sits across from you, downing huge spoonfuls of caramel swirl while attempting a little badly to give you bedroom eyes. You’ve got a more modest helping of what seems to be a French vanilla, and there’s a fire in the hearth.

It’s not even winter, but there’s a fire in the hearth.

Somehow, though, this mansion is a little cold.

The line of Dave’s jacket runs beautifully into the back of his neck and skull. In profile, he looks like he belongs in the clothes.

Maybe he does.

You’re looking at his mouth when he speaks.

“Part of me is trying to figure out a good way to ask you if I can taste your ice cream,” he says, suddenly, and you frown at him.

“It’s your ice cream, you know what it tastes like,” you say, pointing your spoon at him.

“Yeah, I know, it was a bad attempt. I don’t think there’s a smooth way to say that I want to kiss you. Real bad,” he says into his spoon. “To be honest.”

“Kiss,” you repeat, a little blank.

It settles into your brain, and you have to put down your spoon again so that you can rub your hands down your face.

“No, Dave Strider, I don’t think that’s very smooth,” you confirm.

He laughs.

“I do, though. Might be cutting to the chase a little bit, but I really would like to,” he says then. “And please, call me Dave. That’s good enough.”

You sigh.

You take a second to look around the room. There’s a globe, a thick wooden desk, a coatrack. Paintings on the walls. Several pairs of shoes lingering just next to the door. A sofa that looks torturously soft, and the lit hearth. His desk chair looks very fancy and old, but sturdy. There are shelves of books and knickknacks, half of which are likely antiques of some kind or another.

And a few jars that contain reconstructed skeletons. Somehow they end up not being creepy.

“I can’t even eat the ice cream before we begin the one night stand?” you ask, looking up at him. “This is tiring, we can’t even have a farce of conversational foreplay?”

Dave’s face turns red again, and his shades fall down onto his face.

God, those shades. Like he saw one cop movie in the seventies and just decided to never let the style go.

“Uh, I hadn’t thought that far,” he stammers as he takes his shades and puts them on the table.

“What?” you ask, curious. Did he not…? Wow. You sure jumped that gun.

You’re just taking every opportunity to embarrass yourself.

And running with it.

“I just really wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t want to do it out there,” he says, and.

Wow.

That actually manages to be charming, as opposed to feeling like a single neckbeard’s last grab at getting the attention of his chosen manic-pixie-whatever.

“How long have you been alive again? Are you a high schooler?” you ask him, flabbergasted. But smiling. That’s important to mention, for atmosphere.

Dave turns even redder even with his tan skin, and you’d be concerned if he hadn’t admitted that he’d fed earlier in the day.

“I mean I’m down for other things, guess I had a focus,” he admits.

It’s quiet for another minute, and you choose to put more ice cream in your mouth.

The innocent intentions don’t make him any less attractive.

Your forehead meets the palm of the arm you have elbowed into the table.

“Yes, you can kiss me,” you tell him with a wave of your hand, and Dave makes a nice little sound.

“Jesus, it’s like we’re kids,” you say, and when Dave laughs, he’s closer to you.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I promise I’m cooler when I’m not suffering from cutie exposure in the third degree,” he murmurs, and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling on the floor in front of you.

His hands come up to cup the sides of your head.

“Already?” you ask him, and he laughs.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for hours,” he says. “Feel free to publish that.”

His breath is sweet like caramel on your mouth, and you sigh, turning to face him.

“Awkward position. Spend much time on your knees?” you ask, offhand, as you lean in a little closer. No point in wasting time thinking about the fact that this is moving fast.

Dave snorts. “Take you too long to think of that?” he retorts.

“I’ve done better,” you reply, and close the gap.

Dave presses up easily into your lips.

That’s one thing he’s apparently got down, after however long he’s been alive.

His mouth is surprisingly soft, and actually very humanly warm.

You kiss him back, and he inches into the gap between your knees. Dave’s chest heaves with an inhale through his nose, the same scenting thing as before. Like he can’t help himself. He said you smelled nice. Did he mean like, your blood? Your skin? Or just your shampoo?

Something about the way his fingers draw down your neck tells you it’s the former.

The thumb on his right hand lingers on the pulse point under your chin almost dangerously.

It sends a wonderful shiver down your spine.

“Had a feeling you were into that,” he mutters distractedly, and you make a negative sound as you trace a line across his lips with your tongue. Dave gasps, and you use the opening.

One of his fangs just barely scrapes the tip of your tongue once you get it in his mouth, not firmly enough to draw blood.

Dave makes a very small whine.

When you pull back from this, he follows, and curses before reconnecting.

“I thought you said you weren’t hungry?” you ask him, between kisses.

Dave sighs, pulls back long enough to explain. “It just feels good when you get foreign warm pressure on the good ol’ canines.” He opens his jaw and tongues one of them, showing you how it doesn’t work for him, not meeting your eyes. “Probably pavlovian at this point, capische? Now please, more kissing, less talking.”

You snort, and go with what he wants.

You pull him in by his cravat and the back of his neck.

Dave licks into your mouth again, huffing out a relieved breath at getting to continue. Pushing his coat off his shoulders doesn’t take much effort, and he just lets it fall behind him. Once that’s off, he moves even closer into your space to help you with removal of yours.

Usually, with people you know, or have dated, there’s some kind of rhyme or reason to the process of steadily taking clothes off until no one is decent and there’s an end in sight. This is different. With this, it’s just a gradual decline into passion and heat over the moments. It feels natural, normal. Like you’ve done this with him before. Maybe that’s where his age and experience speak; where his decades of probable practice help him.

Maybe it’s just coincidence.

As Dave pulls you to the edge of your chair with his hands on your hips, you toe off your shoes. He makes a noise when you fit your heels into the small of his back.

Lips sticky on lips from the sugar of the melting dessert.

It’s just a descent into murmurs, words becoming less important as you slant your mouth down on his, and he loses the buttons of his waistcoat.

There’s a jolt, and some very fast movement. The next thing you know, you’re lain across the soft leather couch in front of the fire.

For someone only interested in kissing, he was sure quick to get it horizontal.

Of course, you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been kissing. It could have been hours.

He grinds his hips down into yours, and you lose whatever train of thought you thought you had.

Thank God for external genitals.

You didn’t know you were so hard before, even if it makes sense.

He does it again, and bears down on you just as you pull on his lower lip with your teeth.

“You still okay with more than kissing?” Dave asks, then. It’s a little hesitant, in the way someone asks a question when they think they’re going to get a negative answer. Instead of doing what he thinks, you reply by arching up into him in turn.

Dave gasps and moans.

“Okay, fuck, should we have less clothes on?” he asks. A firm, strong thigh slots between yours.

“Would be a little hard to do that, now,” you say, rolling up on his thigh. You allow a satisfied sigh to escape your throat.

Dave makes a face half like he’s gotten into way more than he can chew, and half like he’s totally consumed with lust, and dives in to kiss you again. While he does that, you work on his waistcoat.

Once his is unbuttoned, you get your own.

Before Dave has fully figured out what to do with himself, there’s a pile of waistcoats, shoes, bow ties and so on littering the Persian rug.

Even the skin of his stomach is warm against yours.

It feels wonderful, and he runs fingers down your shoulder, through your chest hair. His fingers curl around your hip and cup your ass cheek. Deceptively slender and strong fingers, they are.

The warmth of the fire makes you feel oh so much closer as he holds your upper thigh, and pulls your hips even more firmly up into his. The bulge in his pants makes itself known. The leg he’s gripping hooks itself back around his back, and you press him in with as much strength as you can muster. If your brain had been bothering to wonder how it’s possible for a vampire to have an erection before, it isn’t anymore.

Dave gasps into your mouth.

“Are all Drinkers hairless on their bodies?” you ask, and Dave snorts, drawing away to mouth a line up your neck.

“Of all the questions you could ask,” he groans, “ _That’s_ the one you chose?”

“Hhmm,” you hum, “I’m a simple man, Dave.” The end of his name is cut off on a fresh moan when he yanks you up into him again, and sets a pattern of a nice, slow grind.

You hold his face into your throat as your head jerks back onto the cushions.

And ooh, if that doesn’t hit the spot right there.

Dave’s mouth opens, and you feel the brief drag of fangs there. A shower of sparks flies up your spine, and your whole body shivers. Dave freezes all motions.

“I won’t bite you,” he says.

And you notice the full stop a second later than he does.

“Muh?” you ask intelligently.

“If they don’t ask for it, I don’t bite,” Dave says.

It takes a second to realize he’s reassuring you.

“You seemed scared,” he adds. And you groan. Your leg falls from his back, and you sigh.

“Not really,” you assure him. “I was kind of enjoying myself.”

A look of knowing comes across Dave’s face. It’s followed quickly by a little bit of bitterness and irritation that transforms very quickly into lust. “Am I exposing your kinks?” he asks, and you have to look at him to make sure, because. Yeah. He’s totally laughing at you.

You scowl, and try to get a foot between you to push him away.

Dave doesn’t move, much stronger than you by a long shot. He just stays there, grinning.

“Yes, okay? Bite me,” you tell him scathingly.

“If you want,” Dave replies.

He took your retort as a request on purpose, you know it.

Everything in the room stops moving, except the firelight. No, the firelight flickers off his eyes and the side of his face. And despite the heat of it, you find yourself shivering again.

“Okay,” you answer, after a long minute or three.

You’re very solidly blaming this terrifying and impulsive decision on how aroused you are.

Dave’s pupils blow out wide.

“Have you been bitten before? You know it’s not gonna turn you, right?” he asks, questions firing off in quick succession. “But you know it feels good for you, right? Which is why you agreed?”

You put your hands over your face.

“No, and the other three are yes,” you answer.

“I’ll take care of you,” Dave promises, and it sounds so sober that you have to pull your hands away to look at him again.

“Okay, I said,” you repeat, feigning irritation to cover your embarrassment.

Dave kisses you again, keeping his one hand on your thigh, and using the other to prop himself up on his elbow. His lips are hot and gentle as he moves them against yours. The hand on your thigh creeps up your side. Everywhere it touches sends signals and tingles to your extremities.

You’re a little too satisfied to see that your little break didn’t kill your boner at all.

Just as his tongue flicks into your mouth again, wet noises filling the air, his careful touches reach your collarbone.

The thumb of his travelling hand presses into your pulse as they run up your neck. You sigh, body rolling up on his, where it can, and try to lift up to give him better access. Dave moans at the gesture, the deep noise echoing in his chest.

He keeps his hand there for a minute or three, caressing the heartbeat in the vein. It’s comforting, in a way, and you find yourself relaxing under his touch.

By the time he starts kissing his way down your jaw to the opposite side, you’re pliant and distracted. Your own fingers run over his chest and ribs, nails drawing faint lines across his shoulder blades. You make soft noises that might be words to him, and he licks a stripe across the underside of your chin.

Dave peppers little kisses across your neck and shoulder. His lips are so soft. A few playful bites drag across your skin, and you shiver, squirming. It tickles a little, makes you laugh. Dave sighs at the laugh, and laughs a little himself. This whole situation feels like you shouldn’t take it seriously. It feels airy and lighter than it has any business being. There’s so much implicit trust it should worry you, but it doesn’t. And somehow, this is all just… normal. Drinkers don’t have influence or glamour.

“Fuck, I’m drunk on you. So embarrassing,” he tells you, and you laugh again. It’s a little giddy, anticipatory of what’s to come. It doesn’t strike you what he means until he inhales deliberately by your throat. It’s not loud or weird or creepy. Just an inhale. His hand on your neck moves to tip your head back.

And then, without further preamble, Dave fits his mouth to the junction of your shoulder.

And bites.

It pierces the skin less violently and offensively than you thought.

It hurts like getting blood drawn, at first. A small stab, and then a thick ache. It makes you groan unhappily, and scratch him harder than before.

But Dave taps on your waist, like a signal to be patient.

And when you are, it’s worth it.

He’s not sucking, but you can tell when the blood reaches his mouth, because Dave groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever had or done.

And then the venom kicks in.

It’s like you’re being gently lowered into a hot bubble bath, with how the comfort spreads. It’s a feeling of ecstasy and drunk happiness, spreading from the point of the bite and down through your body. You feel light and hot and tight like a spring. The warmth of sunshine and the taste of milk chocolate.

You hear yourself moaning gently but enthusiastically, and you rock back up against Dave. It’s not surprising to find that you’re impossibly hard, but then nothing is coming as a surprise right now.

Everything is okay.

Satisfied, your stress is all wiped out at once when Dave thrusts back against you.

You cant your hips up, and then Dave clearly starts to feel what you feel.

He nearly keens, like he’s overwhelmed by lust, and draws his fangs out of your neck.

A hot tongue swipes across the bite, and another cresting wave of lust kicks itself right through you.

“Fuck,” you gasp against his ear.

Your movements grow desperate as the coil in your belly tightens impossibly. Dave licks the bite again, tastes you again, and his movements grow feverish.

It’s not long before you reach the apex of the high, the spring tightening and tightening and it’s burning on your skin in the most delicious way possible. You cry out, high and loud, as you come in your pants. Dave chokes on something like a sob as he licks off the last of the small trail from your neck, and stills above you.

“Mmh,” you tell the afterglow.

Dave, very inelegantly, slumps off to the side.

He falls off the couch.

You don’t really care.

You examine the flicker of light on the ceiling, steadying your breathing.

Did he come? Surely he did. Yeah. That choking and the stilling and all that. Not that it really matters to you right now, you’re still riding a bit of a high.

Oh _shit_ that was good.

“Stopped bleedin’ but I got bandages if ya want,” he slurs from the floor. Apparently he doesn’t care either.

Dave is breathing harshly.

“Taste good too, if’n y’ don’ mind me sayin’,” he informs you, also slurred, and you snort.

“What kind of accent is that?” you ask.

“Stickypants,” he says, and a coursing flow of giggles comes from the rug. “Even tho vamps don’t get stickypants!”

You turn your head to look at him over the edge of the couch, and Dave is covering his face.

“You drunk?” you ask.

Dave nods.

“Is it the blood?” you also ask.

Dave nods again. “Like a hit a’ peyote or whatever. Your shit is good shit,” he tells you, and then visibly pauses and laughs. “I don’t know what peyote is like.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s verging on creepy again,” you tell him right back.

Dave laughs again. “Not like I ‘just couldn’t help myself’ or somethin’ like that.”

“True,” you say, and nod.

And then you slump.

That was… one hell of an orgasm.

Jesus.

You’d be down for that again.

But something in you feels incredibly weak and vulnerable.

And ravenous.

Not near enough blood was lost from that to make a single lick of difference. So…

“Is this cause of the venom?” you ask the air.

“Aw shit I forgot,” Dave says, and pushes himself up off the floor.

He grabs a large, fluffy blanket from a chair and pulls it over to you. It’s warm and soft on your skin, and feels like heaven.

“Here we go, time for aftercare,” he says as he scoots in behind you on the couch.

And you frown a little, even as you’re wiggling back into his arms.

“Isn’t aftercare a dom and sub thing?” you ask him. “I’m not your fucking submissive.”

Dave snorts. “Words can be used for a lot of things, Karkat Vantas.”

You catch yourself rolling your eyes again.

Sure, whatever.

His arms feel so nice and safe.

The fire is bright, so you turn in his arms to face him instead. It’s nice and dark there.

Who cares if you drift off to sleep?

You’ll never do this again.

So why not make it last?

Besides. You’re comfortable.

One of Dave’s hands poises on your chest as you drift. You don’t pay it any mind. It lingers there, above your sternum. Feeling the beat. Sensing it.

His eyes narrow to half-lidded, in the dark of the room.

And his hand pulls back, poised to strike at your vulnerable and resting heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so i meant to have this out much sooner but life stuff happened again, hahaha. tho ill have more free time to write next week and probably a bit more this week, and im gonna get going on outlining this, another fic im planning on starting, and then i really need to get to writing the last chapter of my target lube fic which is orz
> 
> but! i hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, and there will be more plot furthering in the later chapters on a more per-chapter basis, haha. this fic is a little rough imo, so im open to commentary on what you like or even constructive criticism, but please dont be mean or rude, i do this for fun and to entertain other people alongside my job, haha. 
> 
> i love you guys, and i hope you have a wonderful week, and thank you for all the great response on the first chapter of this!!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been two weeks since that night at the ball.

Your article went over incredibly well, and got really good coverage. It was also pretty fuckin’ popular. Even a little viral on facebook, if viral even means anything anymore. Buzzfeed mentioned it, once or five times.

That night, once you recovered and your ‘high’ was gone, Dave walked you to the door.

There was no goodbye kiss, even if he looked like he wanted to give you one. No hug or sweet words or promises of more.

You remember standing there, waiting for something to happen. And apparently, he was doing the same. Because nothing did. Someone called his name from within the mansion, and he withdrew from you, letting the door fall shut.

Maybe you could… maybe he would want to see you again?

You crush your pencil in your hand, and smash the lead on the notebook in front of you at your desk.

No, he wouldn’t want to.

The sound of computer keys tapping sounds from all around you. Hushed voices, a slight murmur, the printer whirring across the room. A fly buzzing around somewhere. How did that thing even get in here?

Someone a couple of rows over is humming a tune. It’s a slow day at the editorial.

Your neck itches, and you reach up to scratch it.

Annoying.

Right there, on the bite. Right there.

It’s healed by now, from the tiny two scabs on the surface to a light bruise, but sometimes you still feel it.

It’s strange.

There’s a little scratch on your sternum, as well, where a mosquito had landed on your chest in front of that fire. Dave had caught it in his fingers, but not without leaving you with a small sore to remind you. He had apologized profusely for it, and you had laughed it off in the close and warm space between your faces.

You want to see him again.

Even without more than just cordial interaction, you want to see him again. It was a great connection, something you don’t often get from your clients or subjects, and you had to go and fucking ruin it with your feelings. And your lust.

Jesus, your internal monologue would be better fitting of a nun.

You fidget at your desk, you try to write a note on the latest news on blood donors you were asked to follow.

And then you remember crushing your fucking pencil.

The graphite is smashed, and you groan a little as you heave yourself up from your desk and over to the pencil sharpener in the front of the room. Fuck Tavros over in agriculture news for dropping your fucking sharpener down the emergency exit stairs. How did he even manage it? It’s a mystery.

You’re stopped on the way to the pencil sharpener by a long arm reaching out of an office door.

“Hey,” comes a familiar nasal tone, and you find yourself working up yet another frown. You don’t turn to him, you don’t face him, you don’t pass go and you don’t collect two hundred dollars.

“What can I do for you, Sollux?” you ask, giving him a brief glance, and you’re greeted with a smug grin.

Your long-time friend is leaning against the jamb of his office door, suit jacket slung over his arm like he was just heading out for lunch. He really can’t pull off a suit.

But he makes the attempt. At least it’s clean. Free of the odor of cum-stained sweatpants from your college years living in a studio and sharing rent.

Somehow.

“Excuse me, asshole, but I’m your superior now,” he says.

You sigh.

“Yeah sure, what do you want,” you try again.

You know full well that you still didn’t bother with honorifics or anything on the second pass. Sollux lets it slide. Thankfully he doesn’t really seem in much of a mood to piss you off today.

“Well, little birdie on the website says that your article got us a lot of publicity,” he says. “From a wide range of sources.”

Forgetting your pencil, you turn to him.

You cross your arms, shift your weight.

“Yeah?” you ask, and he cocks his head.

“Yeah, _so_ I was gonna hound you to hound that Strider sucker for more dough,” he explains.

You scowl, for real this time.

“You know that’s considered bad form now, right? To call them that?” you tell him.

Sollux sighs, and waves a hand. “Sorry, man, still working on it.”

Not good enough, but you’ll accept it. Sometimes you have to. Even if it riles you something vicious.

…weirdly vicious, now.

Hopefully it’s not… any kind of _thrall_ or anything. That’s supposed to be a myth.

If you had to guess, you would guess that it was a vague attachment from your _crush_. You take that thought, file it away, and direct your full gaze at Sollux.

“Sure, whatever,” you sigh, and then wave a hand in the universal gesture for ‘get on with it.’

Sollux looks almost gleeful, rubs his little (very little, actually) hands together, and smacks his lips.

“I want you to do a series of articles on him,” he says. “A business advice column, or maybe just advice column, with a personal touch. And a little about his daily life.”

“What,” you ask, nonplussed. “Why?”

“Because people ate your shit _up_. He’s a hot commodity,” he answers.

His grin twists even more.

“And you made him sound so attractive, apparently. According to polls,” he coos.

And you kind of almost snap your pencil in half, this time.

Oh joy.

Oh joy to the fucking world.

 

* * *

 

That’s how you ended up giving Kanaya Maryam another call.

And she sounded delighted to have you back.

Delighted, and _knowing_.

And you heard her clap her hands happily, giggling a little, and she started listing.

Things you could do, questions to ask, Dave’s work schedule, and so on.

“Oh, his first free day is this Wednesday night!” she said, and you could hear a murmur in the background. “The two of you could ride horses or enjoy a nice cup of tea while dinner is prepared, and talk about your little story.”

By the tone, you can clearly tell that she’s not taking your job seriously. But what’s new?

“Alright?” you say, a little unsure. That seemed as good as anything. And since Kanaya is Dave’s sire, you assume she has a certain amount of control over whether he refuses or not.

“I’ll order something delicious for you, and hire back that chef from the last party,” she says. “She was wonderful.”

She pauses, as if waiting for some kind of response from you. How… odd.

“It was very delicious, yes,” you confirm.

She hums, a light noise.

“Oh and I’m sure he might try to refuse another interview,” she begins, and you open your mouth to tell her that it’s no rush. And she talks over your thoughts.

“Of course, once he hears it’s you, he’ll be over the moon, I bet,” Maryam simpers. And you.

What?

“Huh?” you ask, without thinking.

Something warm flutters in your chest to hear that he would be happy to see you. You. Happy to see _you_. You try not to let yourself get carried away with the idea.

He’s probably just after your blood, right? He said it smelled and tasted great?

The thought makes you shiver, and you convince yourself that it’s revulsion.

It’s better not to get your hopes up about how he feels about you. Besides, he’s a subject. You need to not get too involved with subjects. You’ll be working. Business, not pleasure.

“Right,” Maryam says, not answering. “So let me give you his contact information. Poor boy only has ten contacts on his personal phone, it’s a wonder he’s younger than me.”

You’re still a little stumped.

Still.

“Okay,” you agree.

And she gives you numbers to write down. She tells you to be at the estate around seven in the evening in two days, if you can make it.

You try desperately not to think about how much of a fool you’re going to make of yourself around him. You try so, so desperately not to think about the night two weeks ago. You fail.

 

* * *

 

A butler meets you at the door.

His suit is… strangely tight, and he’s got long black hair that has been neatly wrestled into a ponytail. Those are the first things you notice. The next thing you notice is the markings on his skin. The man has a circular tattoo tracing around a spot on his neck, with a symbol inside, and you glimpse the same one on both wrists. What?

He sighs, eyes glued to your company nametag lanyard and tape recorder.

“It is to show other humans and non-family Drinkers that I am not a Bleeder, sir,” the man informs you, and gestures for you to follow him into the house.

“Ah,” you reply, and trip over one of your own feet following in his wake. The door falls shut behind you, and you don’t hear it lock. Not quite.

“Lady Maryam has requested that you meet the young Mister Strider out near the stables,” he informs you over his shoulder.

A quick glance up and down your body.

“We have extra riding clothes if you wish,” he says, simply. “Your clothes are not strictly… suitable, sir.”

You refuse to allow embarrassment to flood into your cheeks.

“Excuse me?” you ask him, and he makes a face.

You kind of expect a little bit of an apology, or something, but he just sniffs and continues walking away.

You open your mouth to give him whatever piece of your mind comes first.

And you see someone you feel like you should recognize.

She’s reclined on a chaise in the shadow of a room as you walk by. The only window you’ve seen open in the entire house has its drapes drawn off to the side. It’s dark by now, and she hasn’t bothered to find shade. The moonlight illuminates her somehow more than the lamp near her foot.

Through the open door, you get an eyeful. A girl with the palest skin and longest hair you’ve ever seen lies in an open robe and silk chemise, with a glass of tomato juice on the table, a piece of celery sticking out of the top. A small platter of breakfast pastries sits on the table next to the tall drink.

She’s already watching you when you meet her eyes.

They’re startlingly red-brown, and almost seem to glow in the half light.

She thumbs the top corner of her book with a very sharp nail.

There’s something in the little twist of her smile she has that sets you on edge.

And she waggles her fingers at you.

“Sir?” the butler asks, and you’re jolted.

You fling your gaze right back at him, and he’s leveling you with a tired stare.

“If you would please follow me closely, now, sir,” he says, and you reach up to scratch the back of your head.

You glance back into the room before you continue, and the Drinker is nowhere to be seen. Who…

“Miss Aradia likes to leave her doors open, for whatever reason,” the butler says, perfunctorial. “It would do you good to not be nosy.”

You think you see a bead of sweat or three on his forehead.

You frown at him.

You weren’t being nosy.

But that… that was her, then? One of the houseguests you have yet to meet formally. That leaves four others, and you wonder briefly if you’re going to meet more of them every time you wander out to this estate.

As you follow him, lips sealed, you pass through a mudroom of sorts. It leads you out to the vast back porch, and then you head down some stairs. It’s actually a porch, and not the balcony from before. Briefly you wonder where _that_ is in reference to what you’re looking at now. You don’t remember the layout of the house from the party. Too many bright lights and people.

The house was lit inside, and there are lamps illuminating the path he leads you down to the stables. But the moon hangs full, low in the sky, and you can see a few stars.

Behind the house, there’s a decently sized corral, with a very nice barn situated next to it.

Two horses are waiting, rope leads hooked across a tree limb. One of them is saddled, and the other just has a small blanket thrown across its shoulders. It’s not the kind of saddle they use for competition and racing. It’s bigger, brown.

You quirk a brow.

“Hey,” a voice calls from inside the barn, and you look over, trying to see where it came from.

It doesn’t take you long.

Almost as soon as you glance that way, Dave marches out holding a saddle in his arms. There are two bridles thrown across it, both of which he hangs off a peg fastened into the tree.

Oh boy.

You’re fucked.

No, you’re going to be fine. Totally fine. Absolutely fine.

The butler walks you the rest of the way over to the horses, both of whom you give a decent berth.

Dave slings the saddle in his arms across the horse that has yet to wear one, a calm and plump animal with broad splotches of brown and white. Then he turns to you, dusting off his hands and the front of his pants.

You’re just gonna be absolutely and totally fine.

“Glad to see y’ made it out here alright,” he tells you, and gives a little wave to the butler.

The tenor of his voice alone, and your current proximity, send a surreal wave of prickling sensation through you. It makes your face feel like fire and your clothes feel a little too tight.

Yeah, this was a terrible idea.

“The drive wasn’t too bad, surprisingly,” you tell him, a little strangled.

He makes a little face, and you’re not sure what to make of it.

“I’ll be going now, sirs,” the butler nearly shouts, from behind you, and you jump.

Shit, you forgot he was here.

“Thanks Eq,” Dave says, giving him another little wave.

The butler retreats with a small bow, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Dave looks to you.

“Sorry about him. He’s a little judgemental,” Dave offers, wiping his hands yet again on his shirt. “His family has been serving us for quite a long time.”

You remain quiet, a brow quirked, and trying to find your words. It’s still a little difficult. And for some reason, the only thing that’s coming to mind is what is probably a pretty rude question about ‘Miss Aradia’.

“You want anything to drink?” he asks you, and you look back at him.

“Uh,” you say, and he beckons you to follow him.

“Come on, we’ll get you some clothes to change into, as well,” he says.

You find yourself getting indignant.

“I’ll keep my clothes on, thank you very much!” you say. Dave raises a single eyebrow at you, and you splutter, heat rushing to your face. You choose very carefully to ignore the implication. “Well, what’s wrong with my clothes?”

Dave sighs, then, and leads you through a door on the side of the barn, just to the left of the large barn doors.

You walk together into some kind of lavish little clubhouse, with trophies and things on a shelf lining one of the short walls. There are a few leather chairs, an open closet, a small kitchen, and a bar.

“What’s your poison?” Dave asks you, choosing not to respond. You’re sure you’ll find out what’s so wrong with your clothes the hard way. But you’re this far already, and you can’t let him win, right?

“Jamie and Ginger,” you tell him, and Dave snorts.

So he knows how to make cocktails, now?

What the fuck?

“Lemme see if we have Jameson in here.” He says, bending over to search in the cabinet. “Dinner will be a little late, I’m sure Kanaya must have told you.”

“She did,” you confirm, and Dave resurfaces with a bottle of your request.

“Let’s see if I remember how to do this,” he mumbles. He sends you a little rakish smile that sends heat down your stomach, and you look at your hands. You place them awkwardly on the bar, moving up to lean on it like you’re actually capable of being casual.

“You know why I’m here, right?” you ask.

Dave makes a face, but then surprises you, and shrugs it back off.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m cool doing more interviews. Kan said it was like, an advice thing and also a personal thing? What am I, Cosmo?”

While he mixes your drink quickly and easily, you answer. “Yeah, I don’t know either, but my boss said it’s what people wanted.”

He slides the drink to you with a careful hand, and your fingers touch as you reach out to grab it. Dave pulls his hand quickly away and busies himself with hooking his shades in the front of his shirt.

It’s stiflingly quiet for a few seconds.

“Aren’t you worried about the horses being out there unattended?” you ask him, to break the silence.

“Nah, they’ll be fine. They’re very well trained. Besides, we can sip while I finish saddling them.”

You make a face.

Dave legitimately laughs. “What?” he asks.

“Why are we riding horses, anyway?” you ask him, and he finishes making his own drink before replying.

“I dunno, I thought it would be fun,” he explains. “You seem like you could use a little fun.”

You peg him with a withering look, and he snorts again.

“It’s true,” he says stubbornly. “I’ve been riding since I was a kid anyway.”

You make the same face, again, and follow him outside.

Dave stops once he reaches the fence, and sets his glass on a square post. “What now?” he asks.

You mumble something into your drink.

He looks up from where he’s fastening straps on the saddle. “What was that?”

You glare at him.

“Like fuck I know how to ride a horse, Strider,” you snap.

His face almost lights up, and he claps his hands together.

“It’s time to learn, padawan,” he says.

“That reference is dated even for you, Dave,” you say.

And the next thing you know, your drink is gone. And you’re being knelt before on the ground. Dave is on one knee to give you a leg up onto the horse, and you try your very best not to look like a complete fool and fall on your ass.

Which. You do.

You fall on your ass, in the dirt.

Your business-casual sneakers get hooked in the stirrup wrong, and you fall.

Dave is too busy laughing to help you again for maybe another five minutes.

The horses snort and nicker and you lay there in the dirt with your hands over your face and a buzz from the whiskey in your brain until you feel a hand on your arm helping you up.

And that hand is strangely warm for him, so you uncover your face to find him crouching over you.

“Come on, I’ll hoist you up,” he says, smile kindly gone from his mouth but lingering in his eyes.

You sigh, and stand.

And he literally fucking lifts you onto the back of the horse. By the waist.

His fingers are so tingly and familiar on your hips that you almost feel yourself get redder as contact continues. Your heart rate must be skyrocketing, and by the look on his face, Dave can hear every last pulse. His mouth quirks up crookedly and awkwardly and you huff and gingerly grab the reins in your hands.

He pulls himself up onto his own horse, and grasps his own set of reins in his fist.

“Now, don’t kick the horse, okay? She’s a little old and pretty slow but the signal to go is a little kick to the sides. And you will fall if you’re not ready.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“To go left, pull the reins left and tap her side with your right heel,” Dave explains, and you can already feel yourself getting overwhelmed. “To go right, pull them right. And left heel. Tap both heels to move forward.”

“O…kay,” you say, a little unsure. “For left, left and right heel. For right, the opposite. Tap to move.”

“Yeah,” Dave says, and you eye his feet. He’s wearing what looks like very nice and probably old cowboy boots.

“How do I stop?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Right, that’s important,” he says, and his black horse moves forward and turns to position in the opposite direction of yours, very close.

Dave’s hands reach out, and he repositions your hands with the reins. He hooks them behind the bump thing on the front of the saddle. His fingers brush your thigh on the way out. You feel your heartbeat go crazy again.

Dave jerks his touch back as if burned, face almost steaming red.

“Right, so,” he mumbles, clearly flustered. “Just barely pull back with those, and lean back on your saddle and squeeze your legs to get her to stop. Okay?”

“Uh, okay,” you stammer.

He laughs a little, and looks back up at you.

“Now, tap her with your heels,” he says.

And you do.

She starts moving.

It’s almost terrifying, but you’re excited, and you try to remember everything he said to do, down to the last t.

“Turn her around to follow me,” Dave tells you after maybe ten yards. “She’ll automatically follow once I’m moving, but it’s good practice for you.”

And you remember what he said, and you do that, and she turns for you.

As you steer her into the corral with all its lights, you realize you’ve got the hugest smile on your face.

That smile stays as Dave takes you in a circle around the fence. After a couple of laps walking side by side, when he’s surer of your turning skills, he teaches you other things.

He tells you how to get the horse (who you find out is named maplehoof) to trot, first on just straight lines and then on wider turns than the corners of the corral. He tells you how to lift yourself up and post in your seat to make the ride smoother, and he grins so _much_. You’re nervous and terrified, but excited.

You don’t realize you’ve forgotten about the interview until you’re sitting down at the dinner table with Dave, your second drink in your hand.

You’re sore, and walking is awful, but you don’t think you’ve had that much fun in a long time.

“You’ve been riding horses since you were young?” you ask, leaning in to say it to Dave as he pulls out your chair for you.

You ended up having to borrow some of his clothes anyway, as yours were covered in dirt and animal smell. There was someone there waiting to take care of the horses for you and stable and clean them, but your clothes are still sitting in a bag by the front door, on top of your shoes.

Dave is similarly barefoot, and it feels inappropriate in such a lavish dining room, yet here you are.

He’s also changed, out of his jeans and tee and into some sweatpants and a tank top. It’s horribly informal. But you’re wearing the same, and the chef doesn’t blink twice when she brings out your dinner.

“Yeah. I grew up on a ranch in what modern humans like to call the ‘Old West’,” he says, laying his napkin on his lap and digging in. For someone who gets nothing out of food, he sure does like to eat it. “Out in what is now West, Texas, I believe.”

You raise your eyebrows. Huh. So it’s true.

“You can use that in your article, if you like,” Dave tells you, pointing at you with his fork.

And you remember.

It kills your mood a little, and you scoot your chair out.

“Yeah, let me go grab my tape recorder,” you say.

Dave’s face looks mildly disappointed. “Gotta work, right?” he asks.

You nod, and go to find the bag with your things.

It’s a small duffle in the foyer. The tape recorder is zipped into a small pocket on the side, and you decide to leave your notebook behind. You can sort that all out later.

When you return to the dining room door, Dave’s got a thermos in front of him.

It’s opaque and unopened, and he’s glaring at it with something like revulsion.

“I told her I wasn’t thirsty,” he’s saying. The chef’s voice comes from the room, then.

“Yes, well the Lady says that you should feed, since you haven’t in a few days.”

“I don’t want it,” he says.

You enter the room, and return to your seat.

Dave looks up, gives you a little salute, and the chef huffs and leaves without taking the thermos back.

“So,” he says, mouth full.

“So,” you say. “Let’s get started?”

“Yeah,” he replies, with a little wince. “Advice questions first?”

 

* * *

 

Dave walks you to the door when you’re done with dinner, dessert, your interview, and a little nightcap.

His hand touches yours as you step out onto the front step, bag in the other set of fingers’ grasp.

“My next free night is Saturday. We could meet earlier, since it’s supposed to be cloudy for the rest of the week,” he tells you.

You take your hand back, and consider him.

“Sure. Saturday,” you echo.

Dave smiles, and you catch a hint of sharp teeth.

“Great,” he says.

And then, out of nowhere, you hear the horrible cacophonous noise of a chainsaw blaring to life. Just behind your head. A breeze from the spinning blade hits your cheek, and Dave looks panicked, lunging out to pull you away. But it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! (☆´3｀) i dont have much to say this time but i hope youre having a wonderful week and have a great weekend as well! love yall, and thank you so much for all the comments, kind words and support! <3


	4. Chapter 4

It’s too late.

Kanaya has already had to jerk the saw into the bush beside you.

To avoid hitting you, she severs the entire top off of a delicately pruned Cyprus tree, and your leg gets tangled in the wire. You fall backward, grabbing out for anything, flailing.

The chainsaw comes to a slow and grinding halt in the edge of the bush, and Kanaya is already making cooing noises at the horribly disfigured shrubbery. Yeah, she’s doing that. It’s not surprising, actually. You wouldn’t be shocked if that bush was older than you are.

“…mierda,” Dave gasps. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide and shockingly red in the light from the porch.

“Excuse me?” you ask, from where you’ve fallen on the ground.

Just why you’ve decided to ask that first, instead of assessing possible damage, you have no fucking clue.

“I means shit, or fuck, dearie,” Kanaya sighs from where she’s moping and patting the decapitated shrub. “An expletive. I swear, he retained far too much profanity from his youth.”

Dave straightens a little, and carefully steps toward you.

As he’s reaching a hand down to help you up, he leans around the bush to glare daggers at his sire.

“It’s not like you don’t remember every single foul word from India, in both Hindu and Sanskrit--“

“Dave, it is _Hindi_ , not _Hindu_ ,” she hisses at him without looking up. You grab his hand. “You know this, and you would do kindly to remember that even _that_ isn’t correct for what I spoke more than seven centuries ago.” It’s the first time you’ve seen her be anything but perfectly pleasant. Maybe it’s the fact that one of her favorite plants is now… half of her favorite plant?

“Yeah, I know, bad move. I’m sorry,” Dave says, and starts hoisting you up. “You do speak Hindi, though.”

Kanaya sighs, muttering something in tongue you couldn’t even begin to understand, and Dave is smirking victoriously as you rise to your feet.

You can tell that it’s not difficult at all for him to pick you up like this. With one hand, he’s pulling you up, the other going to grab his shades from your fiingers.

And you trip on the cord again.

Fuck. It’s still tangled around your leg.

You go crashing forward into Dave’s chest.

He catches you comfortably and easily. Your face heats when you find yourself mere inches from his mouth and lips and eyes. Instead of focusing on that, you try to shake your leg loose of the extension cord.

“Need some help there?” Dave asks, right in your ear.

Now, a smoother criminal would be making those words sound good. But Dave is apparently such an awful cat burglar that he stayed for a good night’s rest after being knocked out by the safe door. And god fucking damnit, you’re still having to hold him, and he’s still gripping your hand and waist, and those points are so hot through your borrowed clothing.

He stumbles over the question like he’s trying to avoid a trip wire on icy stairs.

Hm. Trip wire. Funny.

Even though he’s barely trying, you’re still finding his breath on your neck both irresistible and awful as all fucking get out.

Holyyyyyyyy shit.

Finally, _finally_ you get your foot out of the cord, and _finally_ you peel yourself off of the front of his molten body.

Well, molten in spirit. He’s actually still kind of… cooler than he was, back at the party. At least, as far as you remember. And you might just remember a little too well.

“So,” you say, stepping back, pointedly not looking at him as you examine the sidewalk. “Saturday.”

Dave laughs very uncomfortably.

“Yeah, Saturday.”

Without further ado, you pivot on your heel and leave much faster than you came. You hear Kanaya giggling from the house behind you.

 

* * *

 

The week can’t pass fast enough with all the looks Sollux keeps giving you. There’s a scant edge of his window where he can still see into your cubicle. And he uses it very generously to himself. You almost don’t go into work for a few days. You’re done writing that article and advice column on the first day, anyway. So you don’t have much to do except edit, plan, and get it cleared.

That Friday, Sollux slips a little bonus onto your desk, tucked conspicuously into a bland white envelope.

He nods at you. And winks.

With a sly smile.

“Keep it up.”

He winks again.

You can’t get out of there fast enough.

The next day you arrive at the Maryam estate with a shoulder bag, in which you’ve stowed a work-issued camera. Sollux had slipped a note into that five hundred dollar bonus. _Get a photo, if you can. You’ll be paid on a commission basis for it._

So there.

Nothing like a heavy and very expensive camera to remind you just what this is: work.

When you pull up to the house, Dave is standing just outside the garden gate. Wearing jeans, and a plaid shirt. Rolled up to his elbows. Oh boy, do you like the look of those forearms.

He waves you over.

You take a deep breath, listening to the sound of your car’s ventilation system to try to find your bearings.

The camera bag shifts when you put the car in park. Right. Work.

Work.

There’s a difference between this time, and last time. This time, you’re determined. No point falling for an immortal, rich asshole, right? Sounds like a total nightmare.

It’s a hollow reminder, and you get the feeling it will mean absolutely nothing.

When you inevitably forget about it, that is. When Dave says something stupid, and you find it shittily charming, and you forget about work again until the deception and your guilty really and truly start to stink up the place.

For now, though, you guess… the goal needs to be work.

As long as you can hold up that façade, it will be for work.

Fuck.

Dave hollers over as you close your car door.

“Gonna ruminate any longer, or are you gonna come and have a good time,” he calls, a hand placed around his mouth in a comical fashion.

And there it is. The stupid thing that you find charming.

What was that? Thirty seconds?

“I’m writing an article,” you tell him, and there it is. Stark reality. “Not going to a fucking carnival.”

Dave laughs at that.

The twilight makes his hair almost glow.

“Late dinner again,” he says. “That okay?”

You walk up, and wait for him to open the gate and lead you inside.

“Yeah,” you tell him, waving him off.

“Boss wanted me to ask for a picture for the column this time. You okay with that?” you ask. Better get it out of the way.

Dave glances at you, and locks the gate.

“Yeah. No flash, though,” he tells you. You’re actually… kind of surprised he said yes. “It makes our eyes glow like some kind of… raaaawr.” He makes his hands into claw-shapes, and makes little scratching motions at you.

You snort a laugh at that.

“Were you always this eloquent?” you ask, rhetorical.

But. He answers.

“Nah. You can take notes on it, if you want,” he says. There’s obvious hesitation in the way he speaks, and how he gestures with his hands. Like he just agreed to this idea recently. He’s… very skeptical. “But I might as well tell you about how I was, before.”

 _That’s_ what surprises you the most.

“Oh,” you say. He nods, giving you an uncertain grin.

“Yeah, I see the question in your face. Rose and Kanaya already have some kind of bio or something,” he says, shrugging. “So I might as well have some of my info out there. Yknow?”

You nod, taking out your notepad. You’re still a little taken off guard that he’s so willingly sharing. It really hasn’t been that long since the party, and at that point, his mind was set. What happened between then and now to change how he felt?

“No tape this time?” he asks.

You shake your head, and he starts to walk. “That’s for the advice questions and business stuff, mainly.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Cause I don’t care about those things enough to remember,” you tell him, honestly. Shrugging.

He goes quiet, and it’s silent for long enough that you take a glance up at him. He’s walking with his hands behind his back. A very tiny but pleased smile is situated right there on his mouth, and he’s looking at you out of the side of his eyes.

“You like me that much?” he asks.

And you feel your face, once again, heat right the fuck up.

“Please tell me about your past so I can get this over with,” you tell him, flustered.

He makes that face again, and starts to speak.

As you walk through the hedge garden, he talks.

He talks about his town of birth.

He waxes poetic about the small three-room cabin he lived in with his brother. About how he slept in the barn half the time, by choice. About how he could see the stars through the roof slats, and how even in winter, it was warm in that barn.

“No way,” you scoff at him.

“Absolutely way,” he insists. “Horses and goats create a lot of body heat.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Smelled like shit, literally,” he adds, making some kind of gesture with his hands. “But no one really cared about that except on Sundays, for mass.”

You make a note about his Christian upbringing, and about the hard work of being on a ranch.

He tells you about the town. It was failing, apparently, until Kanaya came, but people still had time for gossip. As he leads you around a rose bush, he laughs and says that there were indeed a few rumors about Rose. Just rumors, though, apparently. He claims in the same sentence that she didn’t actually get around. She just loved playing with the hearts of men.

At some point, the two of you stop at a fountain.

The moon is reflected beautifully off the surface of the water.

“Why don’t you ever go back?” you ask.

Dave goes quiet.

His face scrunches in a wince, and he sighs. Wistful, regretful.

“It’s… a home, I guess,” he says. His face falters a little. “I miss how it looks. I miss the sky, and the sunsets, and the quiet of wind on the hills. And the flowers. Karkat, bluebonnets are beautiful.”

You wait, even as he pauses.

“I miss all that,” he tells you, and you can see his hands clenched tight as a vice on the small of his back. “But not the oppressive heat, and the dust in my throat. The sweat that stings the eyes reminds me of… relatives. Even hundreds of years ago.”

You reflect. Out of nowhere, you remember how a few of your relatives treated you, when you came out. If it’s anything like that… you understand.

“I can at least try to understand,” you tell him. “And at least be sympathetic.”

For a split second, the night air shades his face. It’s dark, and he looks haunted. His eyes are cast down, almost gaunt and remembering things. Horrible things, it looks like.

You decide you’re not going to write down what he just told you.

His eyes look animal in the dark, razor sharp and set to hunt.

And then the fog lifts from his expression, and he’s looking up at you with a grin.

“Now, see, Texas?” he asks, leaning in a little. “That’s where I learned to shoot.”

 _”What,”_ you ask him, very deliberately, annoyed at the change of subject, and his grin only widens.

“That’s what we’re doing today,” he says.

And he leads you quickly around another corner.

To a small shooting range.

It’s set into a building on the side of the garden, and has just one lane, and one target. But that target is full of holes. Christ.

“Did you seriously bring me out here to teach me how to shoot a gun, Strider?” you ask him, incredulous.

Dave nods, grinning with all his teeth. Even the sharp ones are out. Rare.

“Did you realize that this is the twenty-first century?” you demand. “And that firearms are really dangerous?”

Dave laughs. “Yeah, if you use them wrong. And we’re going to be shooting a target,” he informs you.

A little snide.

You sneer back at him, and beckons you forward.

“No!” you say, shaking your head.

“Come on. One shot,” he begs you. And when that doesn’t work, he pulls out the lousiest pout you’ve ever seen. And it’s so stupid, that’s when the remainder of your restraint just flies out the window and is immediately crushed by your desire to appease him. “It’ll be fuuuuun.”

You make a face, instead of whatever else your face was going to try to do tonight.

“Fine,” you say. He drops the pout immediately. What a child.

You walk to stand next to him, placing your bag carefully on the ground, and your tape recorder.

When Dave positions a long… shotgun? You think? In your hands, you’re still skeptical. The safety is apparently on, and he assures you of this many times that it’s a sturdy and expensive weapon and will not hurt you. But it’s still heavy, and feels strange braced against your shoulder.

You stop feeling so skeptical when he comes right up behind you, and braces your hands with his own.

Dave’s palms are strangely cold on your wrists and the backs of your hands, but you don’t pay it any mind, really. It’s not ice, just cold.

His breath is still a little warm on the back of your neck. His shades have been pushed up to the top of his head. You can’t feel them stabbing into the side of your head.

He says some words, and you’re too busy thinking about the body against your back to pay attention. And before you know it, some things happen, and the gun is kicking back against your shoulder. It hurts a little, but not that much, and Dave murmurs some words of encouragement in your ear.

There’s several new punctures straight through the middle of the torso.

Dave inhales, right on your skin.

You shudder, and your heart skips a beat.

He pulls away very quickly, then.

There’s a concerning look in his eyes.

Something hungry.

He shakes his head, and the look clears.

You’re a little… afraid, for the first time since meeting him.

But also concerned.

“Are you okay?” you ask, and he makes a face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go in,” he says, shaking his head again. “I’ll cook for you.”

You’re wary, but… he seems normal, again.

What’s going on?

…

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that he hasn’t been feeding.

But you do, and he wouldn’t do that. Right?

 

* * *

 

On the way back indoors, you encounter a gaggle of girls. They’re obviously on their way to go sit down somewhere. You hear the sounds of a movie introduction, and suspect there’s some kind of unnecessarily extravagant entertainment room around here somewhere. The girls have bags of snack food, and… very raw and bloody steak… in their hands.

You recognize Aradia, but none of the other three. Wait, no. There’s Roxy, from her cover on TIME. You remember her, and she obviously knows who you are, by the way she’s eyeing you, and very poorly attempting to give you sly winks across the group.

The other two, you don’t know. One has red glasses and a pointy smirk that looks way too natural for her face. The other one is so very tall, with miles of dark curly hair and a voluptuous figure. She is looking at you very knowingly. About… something.

The one with the red glasses speaks up, and you glace back to her.

“Yes, Dave, I’m going to eat it off the package from the butcher,” she says, and licks her lips. It’s a little grody, if you’re honest. But not… unattractive? “No use getting a plate dirty.”

Dave looks a little disgusted. “God, you’re such an animal,” he laments her. She cackles.

Aradia and the very tall one break into extremely hissy giggles. The one you believe is Roxy laughs out loud, and comes over to clap Dave on the shoulder.

She leans in, and you just know it’s not going to be good.

“So. This is your new little spot of sunshine in our moonlit lives?” she asks, very intentionally putting her entire weight on his side. He doesn’t budge. “Scaaaaaaaandalouuuuuus,” she finishes.

By the way she laughs afterward, you can see she’s joking. She winks at you, though, when Dave slaps a palm over his face, and you feel your face fill with yet more heat.

Dave tenses a little, and the very very tall one of the four girls frowns at him.

“Have you eaten, Dave?” she asks. Her voice is soft and kind. Eliminating the rest of the Drinker girls in this house, you’re left with Feferi. Is this Feferi? She was Maryam’s first fledgling, wasn’t she?

Dave frowns, too.

“I’m fine,” he says, and Feferi frowns even deeper before you’re turned by a gentle hand and led back toward the kitchen.

“What was that about?” you ask him.

“Nothing,” he replies, and you let it drop for now.

But he avoids touching you, and makes a face every time you look concerned. It’s guilt, and something else.

He tells you to sit at the counter, and you do as he asks. He pours you a glass of water, and sets about getting ingredients from the fridge.

What he makes is some kind of crusted baked chicken with parmesan, and a caprese salad. You’re surprised by how adept he is with knives as he chops and cooks, and it’s very peaceful to watch. As he prepares your dinner, he very obviously calms down. A small, content smile forms on his face as he lays out mozzarella, basil and tomato slices on a plate for you.

It gets slid in front of you.

“Dig in,” he says, handing you a fork. You laugh, and do as he says, because the smell of the oven is making you ravenous.

The oven dings, and Dave gets the chicken out.

He lays two halves of a chicken breast on a small pile of some kind of green leafy vegetable, and pushes that toward you as well.

And when he says to dig in…

You find yourself hesitating.

It is zero percent because you ate so much caprese salad.

And it is one hundred percent because there is a thick rubbery layer of scrambled egg on the top of the chicken.

“What in the world, Dave?” you ask.

When you hazard a glance at him, he’s got his face in his hands.

“I thought it would make the breading brown better,” he tells you. His voice cracks.. “It works for pie.”

And you.

You look back down at the chicken.

You cut a piece off with the side of your fork.

You put it in your mouth.

And you chew.

Dave peeks through his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he tries, but you hold up a hand to silence him.

“It’s… good. Flavor-wise,” you try, once you swallow.

And he looks like he’s going to start crying.

Suddenly, laughter bursts from within his mouth.

Oh. So he was holding back giggles.

He’s laughing so much, gasping words through it about how much he fucked up. And god, it’s just so funny that you start laughing, too. Dave is bent double over the counter, fists clenched and chest heaving even if he doesn’t actually need air.

And you’re blinking away spots, trying to breathe you’re laughing so hard.

You’ve got a stitch in your side by the time it dies down.

“I’m so sorry man,” he giggles, and you snort.

“Egg is for bread, not the dead,” you say, like a catchy song.

Dave’s eyes widen, and he gives you a really stupid smile.

Your heart starts pounding unnaturally fast. Dave… freezes up again.

He’s got that same look on his face.

And you’re officially done with it.

“Just go eat, you absolute moron,” you tell him.

He looks shocked for all of thirty seconds before he recovers, laughs a bit more, and then goes to the fridge. You don’t see all of what’s inside, but you do see him pull out a bag of… blood. Probably.

He pours it into an opaque glass, and sticks a bendy straw in it.

“Would you believe that it’s tomato juice?” he asks.

You shake your head, and go back to your food. “I saw you take it out of the fridge, idiot.”

You hear him sigh.

“I don’t usually like it when people see me eat,” he mumbles. You hear a stool slide out next to you, and his glass hit the counter. You don’t look at him, then. If he’s uncomfortable, you’ll resist the urge.

“But I’m hungry,” he adds. “Sorry, bro. I don’t wanna chomp you.”

You turn, meeting his eyes for a split second to nod, and then you glance quickly away.

And come face to face with Rose. Who is a total fucking enigma even now, in cat-patterned footie pajamas, and more than just a little creepy? Somehow it also feels affected. Like she’s trying to be creepy. Oh goodness sakes.

“What he’s not telling you is that he hasn’t been eating because he remembers how you taste, and doesn’t want anything else,” she says. Mystically. However someone speaking normally can by mystic.

And she whisks away. Dave splutters. Concerning flecks of what you could probably assume is blood litter the countertop.

Ew.

Dave looks at you, frantic, then.

“That’s not it, I swear,” he scrambles to say.

You frown, feeling a little uneasy. That’s… creepy of him, if it’s true. Right?

“Then what is it?” you ask.

Dave looks so relieved at the chance to explain himself that you do him the favor of ignoring how he swipes the few flecks of blood on his fingertip, and licks it off. Ugh.

“Look. I. I felt like a monster feeding, after that night,” he admits. “You just taste so good, it reminded me of… a very long time ago. And an inescapable urge. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

And relief pours through you as well.

“I didn’t want to be a monster to you,” he continues, taking your expression as a good sign, apparently. “So I was stupid and I went hungry. Okay? I realized it was a bad idea.”

“That’s bullshit,” you inform him, honestly.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, going back to his straw for a slow sip. “I should have eaten. You’re safer that way.”

You frown at him.

“No, you Neanderthal,” you say, setting your fork down maybe a little too firmly. Dave flicks his gaze over to you, confused. “I meant the fact that I would think you were a monster. Of course you were stupid to not eat, but the other thing is what I was talking about.”

In that moment, Dave’s face is brutally hungry. For love, for validation, desperate and a little broken. And that shakes you more than him wanting to feed from you. Like meat.

But he puts the shutters down on it.

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you tell him, and his entire body relaxes at once.

“Oh.”

 

* * *

 

After dinner, and a few interview questions, Dave is washing dishes.

You take out the camera and snap a picture. It comes out pretty nice. People will like to see the down-to-Earth Dave Strider. Domestic, caring, worried, self-reliant. Handsome.

Dave is chewing some very strong wintermint gum after his “meal,” so his breath very thankfully doesn’t smell like any kind of blood. Even if he claims it was cow’s.

His body is warmer, now, and you walk over to curve yourself toward him as he cleans. Because he insisted. On cleaning, not on you being incredibly obvious and predictable about your feelings.

You chatter, banter, talk about life and your work and he congratulates you on your success.

When you turn around again, Rose is there.

And she has the biggest shit-eating grin on her face.

When you rush to turn back around, face alight with a blush, you end up dropping the towel.

And then you slip on it.

Right toward the knife on the kitchen island.

How is that thing resting on it’s edge, anyway? What the fuck?

The last thing you see is Rose’s conniving smirk.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! got this one up in just two weeks! wow! 
> 
> i think i mentioned in the beginning, but this one is gonna be fairly short if i can help it! i need to get myself inspired for whatever i decide to do next, who knows! hehe
> 
> im gonna shoot for two weeks again, so check me out with these stunts! and have a great weekend, all of you! i love you guys <3


	5. Chapter 5

You don’t really know what to expect from falling on a knife. And hey, if that’s how it’s gonna go, then why not? One person can only go through so many near death experiences before they start getting tired of it. And frankly. 

You’re getting tired of it. 

Just before you hit the knife, as your exclamation of fear and surprise is bouncing off the very shiny neoclassical tile pattern, you feel a vise close around your arm. 

You’re yanked back, into his chest.

“Rose!” Dave shouts, from behind you. 

You watch as Rose waves with just the fingers of her right hand, and disappears. 

Dave is grumbling, your heart is pounding, and you’re too busy wondering at the sudden weightlessness in your stomach to focus on anything but the body pressing a warm line into your back. 

White noise plays in your ears, and a sudden wave of fear hits you (belatedly, yes) as Dave turns you in his arms. 

“Karkat?” you hear, like trying to see through muddy water. “You with me?” 

You nod, breathe a few times, and try not to wonder if every near-death experience you’ve had was the construction of Rose Lalonde. The truck that nearly flattened your car last Christmas? Sure. The near miss on a violent storm threat? You don’t know how, but yeah, you could see it. 

Logically, somewhere, you know you’re being unreasonable. But it’s still not entirely out in left field that Rose could have been the one to advise Kanaya to have an impromptu hedge trimming in order to more closely chaperone your departure with Dave. 

The air clears, your ears open, and you look up at Dave with a glare. 

“She tried to kill me,” you say, more indignation than actual anger. 

Dave pauses for a second, blinking, and caught off guard. 

“Well she obviously knew I would catch you,” he says, matter-of-fact. 

You push your hand against his chest, scoffing. 

Dave holds you there, scant inches away from him, hands burning a to-be-remembered pattern into the small of your back. 

“She had no real intent of getting you killed, Karkat,” he says, like he’s absolutely certain. 

You snort again. 

Sure. You’ll take his word for it. 

“Fine,” you tell him. 

Dave makes a face, but shrugs like he’ll take that as an answer. 

“You’re not gonna refuse to come back now, are you?” he asks, plaintive. 

You furrow your brow. You’re itching to dust off your pants, but there’s no space. 

“What if I did?” you ask. 

Dave makes another face, and gives you a little tiny grumpy smile. 

“I would be kind of sad,” he says. 

It reeks of honesty, and your face heats. 

Just how close you are makes your stomach flip, and your fingers clutch a little tight to his arms before you realize what you’re doing. 

Dave’s eyes get strangely intense. 

He leans in. 

You have two options, here. 

And your brain decides which before you even give it enough consideration.

“My boss gave me a bonus for all the great material you’ve been giving me,” you tell him. 

Just that, out of the blue. 

You’re getting a lobotomy tomorrow. 

_”Only take out the part that makes me say impossibly stupid and insensitive bullshit,”_ you’ll tell them.

Dave halts, face turning a little tense. 

“I’m glad you got it. You deserve it,” he says. 

Fate has given you a second chance, maybe? 

And you blurt out the second worst possible thing.

Your brain is now rebelling, actively.

“Wouldn’t want to seem like I was spending time with you for anything but my job,” you tell him. “That would probably be wrong, since I’m making money off of it.” 

There’s officially no recovering this. In the very least, not tonight. 

And you push away. 

He lets you push, too, only holding you with enough force to keep you from tipping over. 

His face is the closest real example to crestfallen that you’ve ever seen. 

But he sighs, shaking his head, stepping back and rubbing a hand over the back of his own head. 

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he says quietly. He says it like you’re not meant to hear it. 

So you pretend you don’t, and you let him escort you to the door. 

Before you’re ready, the door is opened, and you’re lingering awkwardly on the threshold. 

“How about next Friday?” you ask him. 

Dave, hands in his pockets and a small frown on his face, perks up. 

“Yeah, definitely,” he says, with a grin. 

It’s sad, though. It’s so sad and hurt and pathetic and.

That’s the reason you’re giving for why in the next moment, you cant forward, and press your lips into his cheek. 

Gentle, soft, just aft of his mouth. 

Dave’s eyes are wide as marbles when you pull back, and he looks so damn confused you worry for a second that he’s had a fucking stroke. 

Before he can say anything, you turn and stomp back to your car. 

Holy shit, Karkat, holy shit holy _shit_. 

As you drive away, you see him touch his face in the rear view mirror. Smiling at his feet, bewildered. 

Your stomach is a fucking acrobat at this point.

* * *

The next Friday evening, it’s strangely cold out. 

You arrive at the Maryam estate with your heater on full blast in your car, a little past eight. You already ate before coming up, which you texted Dave about. 

Yes, texted, Kanaya called into your office to give you Dave’s cell phone number around mid-week. 

Yes, Drinkers use cell phones. 

What else would they use? Carrier pigeon? 

A gust of wind just blasts you right in the face once you’re halfway out of your car, and you growl at the sky. Fucking unpredictable weather patterns. It fits with your dread, though. You’ve been lamenting yourself for your actions at the end of the last time, and you’ve been trying to figure out what to do, this time. 

You hold your leather jacket tightly around you, and scamper up to the door. 

It’s ‘Eq’, the butler, who answers again this time. 

Is that his full name? It seems a little odd. 

Without any of the commentary from last time, he waves you inside. Pleasantly warm air billows from inside the house, and you go inside without further prompting. 

You were sent with a camera to get another picture. The last one was a hit, (you totally didn’t fondly admire the domestic perfection for two hours once it was printed, no matter what Sollux wants to torment you with) and you’ll take another one and save it for a month or so out. Meter out the things that get excellent reception, and on average you’ll look more successful. 

Eq leads you through the foyer, up some familiar stairs and around some very familiar hallways. And before you know it, you’re standing alone in front of the large wooden doors you saw your first time here. 

They’re cracked open. 

It looks so warm and inviting inside. 

Everything is set in the same place.

Did Dave… bring you to this room in particular because he expects… something? Like last time you were here? That’s the only reason you can think of, however irrational. Though you didn’t see his room, you only saw the antechamber. It was large enough, and you remember seeing chairs other than that sofa. Right?

You gulp, looking at the hinges, the knob, the carpet, anything but thinking of going in. 

And then, god, it must have been hours you’ve been out here, a hand slips from the door and pushes it slightly more ajar. 

Dave’s head pokes out. 

“Well? Are we going to stand out in the hallway for the interview, or would you rather enjoy some cake and coffee?” he asks. His tone is a little haughty, a little naughty, a little annoying. “There are places to sit, as well.” 

You blow air out through your nose. 

“I’m well aware, Strider,” you tell him, and gesture for him to retreat so that you might follow after. 

He does, and you do, and soon enough you’re sitting uncomfortably on the same exact sofa you remember creaming your pants on some weeks ago. 

Dave is sitting at a desk you don’t remember seeing, some music softly playing from what you had been hoping was a _decorative_ phonograph in the corner. 

True to what he said, there’s a pot of coffee and some cakes on the table before you. 

“Feel free to get warmed up,” he tells you, shifting some papers around. “I’ll be over there in a second.”

There’s also a fire in the hearth before the sofa. It makes you feel comfortable and sleepy in a way that doesn’t fit your nerves about this place from the last six days. 

Despite the catastrophe of telling him to his face that you didn’t want to look like you were sleeping with him for money. Or spending time with him, or whatever. 

You do as he offered and pour yourself a cup of coffee, cut yourself a slice of cake. Black forest cake, it looks like. 

You’re hesitant to put it in your mouth, for a moment mildly worried that this might try to kill you, as well.

It’s delicious when you taste it. 

Fuck, if it has poison in it, it’s probably worth it for the flavor. 

Sweet without being too rich, excellent texture of both the topping and the cake itself. Dense without being too heavy. You make an unholy noise. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Dave asks, and you nearly drop your plate. A bit of the coffee does spill on your leg, and you swear.

When you glance up, he’s sitting quite comfortably in an armchair to your left. Legs crossed, hands steepled like he wishes he was recording evidence to use as blackmail. 

“How long have you been there?!” you ask, mopping up what you can from your jeans. 

“Not long. But long enough to be a little jealous of a pastry,” he replies. 

You flush, and set the dessert down on the table. 

“Let’s get to the questions, shall we?” you ask, maybe a little rushed. 

Dave laughs, one second of a big, booming thing. And then he stops. 

“Sure,” he says. 

And there you go. 

Tamping down your embarrassment in a way that feels like you’ve been doing it _way_ too much, you nod and get ready to interview. It’ll go like it usually does, with you taking notes and Dave rambling on about whatever he wants. He’ll talk forever about the simplest things. But you don’t find it difficult to parse the more pertinent parts of the answers. 

And his tone will be calming as usual, deep and monotone. Like he’s gotten too used to the sound of his own voice over the decades. 

You take out your notebook, flip to a new page, title and date it, and look up at him. 

“Okay. So, I ended up opening a twitter account specifically for the questions that people had,” you say, and he nods. Taking that as it being alright, you pull your phone out of your pocket. 

“Am I going to be assaulted with memes, or whatever they are?” he asks. “God, I love memes.” 

He’s gazing starry-eyed (you imagine) somewhere above your head, and you snort a laugh. 

“No, actually, most of the questions seem to be pretty genuine,” you tell him. “Maybe a couple of those about garlic and doors or something?”

“Ah yeah, the fuckin’… old lore shit,” he says, mock-wistful, and you find yourself laughing again. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. 

“Though I’m guessing we have to stick to business?” he asks, a tilt to his mouth. 

You give him your best long-suffering sigh. “We could throw in a joke question, if you want,” you grumble. It’s a very fake grumble. Embarrassingly fake. If Sollux could hear it, he’d be in fuckin’ stitches. 

Dave rubs his hands together, and then eagerly turns to you. 

“Alright, best for last,” he says. 

And you turn your face back down to your notebook, unable to help a grin, and pull up one of your preferred non-repeat questions on your phone. 

“ _’What is the one thing you find to be true that most would disagree with?’_ … is the question. From uh,” you squint, thinking you might be reading the name wrong, but nope. “From DoctorDoobie42069.” 

There’s a period of stunned silence from his end, and then Dave starts laughing again. “Yeah, this is my new favorite interview method,” he tells you, scrunched up and trying not to giggle as he finds his answer. 

You stare at him as you wait, and he tries not to look at you. He does tilt his head that way, once, and starts laughing anew. 

“Are you quite done?” you ask, after about five minutes of this. 

Dave nods, visibly stifling himself.

He wipes a thumb under one eye, and then sits back in his chair. 

“Oh, man,” he breathes. “Okay, so.”

And then he begins to speak, giving you a good, calm answer. He talks about his immortality. There’s something about the idea that a lot of mortals seem to think business must be a lot easier if you already have the money and a long-flourishing business, and you are able to keep in contact with new inheritors of companies. 

“But then, times change, the economy changes, and publicity stuff happens that puts you in a rut,” he says. You nod. “Like with modern media, Drinkers like myself have been needing to come out of hiding in the last hundred or so years.”

“How so?” you ask him, starting a new bullet point.

“Well,” he says, “When you don’t age, and your face is everywhere, people notice. I did my business as a few different people and with some creative hair dye and makeup.” 

You look up at him. “Oh yeah, I remember seeing that. And you brought it all out awhile back.” 

“Yeah,” he replies, and then keeps going on, elaborating on his answer. 

With every passing minute, his age hits you. 

For pretty much the first time.

It’s not like with Kanaya, who seems to hold a certain amount of gravity. 

And it’s not like with Rose, who has a very specific aura about her. It’s not like any of those girls, like the very tall one, or the shortest with the pointed chin. They seemed… more obvious. But Dave. 

You’ve been thinking of him as mortal without even noticing. 

For the first time since the beginning of that party, you’re thinking of him as what he is. A Drinker. 

His hands move in the air as he answers your next question, something about different ventures he’s thought about pursuing. 

His mouth opens a little wider than normal, and you see a flash of his teeth. 

It feels… odd. 

If you were together, you would grow old. 

He wouldn’t. 

And then, your own mortality smacks you square in the cheek. 

It doesn’t feel good. 

“You know, business is like dancing. You just have to know the steps and have a knack for rhythm.”

That couple of sentences pops you right out of your mind pit. It re-fastens the off-kilter feeling, and you blink a few times before spearing Dave with a skeptical wince. 

“You don’t know how to dance,” you say. And you believe it wholly. He was sitting alone on that balcony instead of being in the party. 

“Uh,” Dave says, looking like it’s clearly the most obvious thing in the world that he can dance. “Yeah I can.” 

You scoff. “Sure. And I’m the next president.” 

Dave scoffs this time. “Well okay, mister president, let me prove it to you.” 

A new song starts playing, and Dave gets to his feet. Places his shades gently on the table.

“And a great song for it, too,” he says, brushing off his pants and holding a hand out. Wait. You’re supposed to grab it, aren’t you? 

Oh no, he wants to dance with you? 

“I would rather not,” you tell him, holding your palms up. “I’m really shit at dancing.” 

That’s the truth, but Dave laughs like you’re being ridiculous anyway. 

The song has muted trumpet and foggy singing. It’s smooth, lovely. A little crackly, in a way that blends into the sound of the fire. You don’t know this song. 

Dave’s hand is still out, so you think. 

His age hits you again like a freight train. 

His posture, straight and heels just barely apart, toes pointed outward. Like he’s accustomed to holding the dainty paw of some lady who would swoon in a ballroom, he’s got his fingers gently bent, thumb flat to pull you up. 

“I…” you stammer. It’s not just your hesitance to remain professional anymore. If that was ever a real thing for you regarding this man. It’s… 

Would there even be any point in pursuing it? 

He would move on when you got grey hairs. 

But his grin is insistent, and he’s still waiting. 

“Not my fault if you get your toes stepped on,” you tell him, and put your book aside. 

He snickers. “You could stand on my feet and I wouldn’t care,” he says. 

The firelight against the side of his face makes him look so warm and inviting. The lamps in the corners of the room make the air feel yellow and diffuse with cream. And before you know what you’re doing, you’ve taken his fingers with your own. 

Dave pulls you out around the table to stand between the fire and the sofa. 

Directing your hands, one to his shoulder and the other to his matching palm, he patiently arranges you. 

“Now,” he says, once you’re situated. “Left foot back first.” 

After a few turns of instruction, you get the hang of it quite easily. 

Soon, you find yourself moving naturally. You’re flustered by the hand at your waist, and the cheek against yours. Dave is very good at leading, and telegraphing his motions so that they’re easy to follow. 

It’s a slow dance, it doesn’t require a lot of conversation, and it makes the room feel so quiet. 

“How’d you get so smooth all of a sudden?” you ask, bristling a little as his fingers shift on your hip. “You were a bumbling idiot a few weeks ago.” 

Dave laughs a little. The breath whisks against your ear, and makes a tingle go down your spine. 

“Yeah, and I still am,” he tells you. 

Yeah, right. “Then what do you call this?” you ask, a little indignant. 

“Kanaya forced me to learn, for parties,” he explains softly. “I have to concentrate an unreasonable amount, and it took me thirty years to get good enough for her approval.”

“Oh my god. Thirty?” you ask him, aghast. You pull back to get a load of his face, and he looks embarrassed. The regretful honesty in his eyes. 

“Y-yep,” he says, a little hesitant. 

“Christ, Dave.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Only someone as immortal as one of you would take the time for that instead of just practicing good excuses to get out of dancing,” you say, and move back so that you’re looking over his shoulder. His cheek is soft and warm. A sinking feeling goes through your body like quicksilver, and you lament bringing up the immortality thing again. For your own sake. 

But then, Dave does something that surprises you. 

He snorts, and says, “We’re not as immortal as you think.” 

You’re confused, but you try not to show it. You fail, and end up stepping on his toe. “What?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” he replies, a warm caress on the shell of your ear. “We stay in the sun too long, we start to age.” 

“What?” you ask, again. 

Dave nods against the side of your face. “Ever wonder why we live in this part of the country? It rains a lot.” 

You feel… stupid. 

“Wow.” 

So there _is_ a chance that he could grow mortal with you? 

“Yeah,” he says, yet again. “The sun doesn’t burn us, by the way. Just itches a little. But it’s manageable.”

You stop, then. 

Half of his body presses heavily into yours, as you come to a halt and look at him dead-on. Stopping as soon as he can, Dave lets his hands fall (regrettably) from you. 

“So the thing about you burning in sunlight isn’t true?” you ask, aghast. 

“Is that what they’re saying nowadays?” Dave asks, incredulous, and then lets out the biggest laugh yet. “God, no wonder!”

You feel a little humiliated, and back away, folding your arms. 

“Excuse me,” you say, and he comes toward you, placing a careful hand on your upper arm. 

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” he says, and you do. You wait. 

“Before you leave, I had something I wanted to ask you, anyway,” Dave says. 

His voice is very serious and soft. 

You fix him with your gaze, hoping your expression at least looks receptive. 

“I wanted to ask you to go on a real date with me,” he says. 

It takes you so far off your guard that your mouth hangs briefly open. 

“Uh,” you mumble, and you feel your eyebrows shoot up. 

All that talk you did, and. 

He still wants to pursue you? 

“Specifically a date, no jobs involved,” he adds, and takes his hand off your arm to scratch the side of his face. “If that’s okay with you.” 

And you’re still dumbfounded, but you find yourself nodding.

Ah, fuck, no, body. Stop that, Karkat. You already have a million reasons—well. No, you don’t. You have the job, and he specified that there would be no work. And then you have his questionable immortality. 

Which. 

It’s not like you’re not signing on for a lifelong commitment. 

Right? 

Just a date. 

Just a date couldn’t hurt. 

Right? 

Dave looks overjoyed, as well. He looks happy, like he wants to just hug you right now. 

“Oh thank God, because if you had said no I would have been. Horrified and embarrassed,” he says, wringing his hands. “It would have been okay, because I’d still get to spend time with you, but I like you a lot. So this is preferable.” 

You don’t really know what to say, so you just grin a little and nod again. 

“There’s something I have to tell you first, though,” Dave says, and the way his face creases and falls is not at all reassuring. 

“What?” you ask, frowning. Finally finding your voice. 

“Well—“ Dave starts. 

And he’s interrupted by the sound of a window breaking violently to your left. 

Glass shatters into the room, following a baseball that’s headed at light speed straight for your skull. 

What the fuck. 

Again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW so apparently this chapter was sitting there, finished, for an entire week and i didnt even remember  
> holy hell
> 
> lmao, anyways, here it is, i hope yall enjoyed, im just kind of freeballing it at this point and im not sure where its going anymore! but i hope you guys are having fun haha. i kinda blasted through editing this so if you notice any typos feel free to let me know! see yall soon!
> 
> love you! <3


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